To the Edge and Back

Brothers and sisters, I have stepped to the edge of the cliff, gazed into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, feared the evil, teetered on the edge of annihilation and survived to tell about it. I have lived through that harrowing adventure known as (cue foreboding music) PROM DRESS SHOPPING WITH A TEENAGE GIRL! There were thrills. And chills. And spills of a giant unsweetened tea when I accidentally poked a hole in the bottom of my Styrofoam cup. But in the end we walked away with a dress that made Teen Angel happy and passed my rules, which are:

1. Must have a skirt long enough to keep the fanny from being exposed when you touch your toes. (No duck dresses. A duck dress is one with a hem two inches below the quack.)

2. Limited cleavage.

3. Must cost less than one mortgage payment.

I gave up on pushing for a consignment store dress because that was an argument I wasn’t going to win. You’d think I had asked her to shave her head bald or something. I settled on a dollar amount I would pay and anything above that was on her dime or between her and her grandmother to work out since granny has more money than sense and an intense desire to make sure Teen Angel goes to prom in style. Granny also thinks dyed shoes and beaded purses are still in style, but we’ve almost talked her down from that ledge. Another week or so and we’ll have her convinced that a nice pair of silver heels will do just fine.

I do like the dress. I find it quite elegant, even if it is going to be an ordeal to go to the bathroom in that thing. And I find it ironic that pouf is in since pouf was big when I was a senior, but I like the pouf. Warning! Camera phone pictures:



Anyhoo, we had a successful afternoon of shopping last Saturday that involved only one incident of me hissing through gritted teeth, “Don’t act like an arse just because I don’t like something you pick out.” And since they had assistants, I didn’t have to stand on the other side of the dressing room catching ill fitting dresses tossed over the door or spend fifteen minutes lacing Teen Angel into each dress. I even got a couple of laughs out of the two lone fathers who tried to navigate the store full of some thirty young women sorting through and trying on dozens of fancy ball gowns with sequins and feathers and shoes, oh, the shoes! There were giggles and squeals and phone cameras clicking right and left. One dad announced too loudly to a whole room full of ladies that he had to pee, while another sat in a chair, shaking his head and mumbling, “I just don’t understand.” I think he had just seen the price tag on the dress his daughter was wearing.

I survived intact and am now working up the strength to shop for the necessary underwear. Not for her. For Hubby, when the boy shows up to pick her up. The poor man is more scared of her dates than he is the price of the dress.