The dress cost me $85, an extravagant price that nearly wiped out my entertainment budget for June. I felt a pang of guilt over spending such an amount on a single item when I really needed new work blouses and perhaps a pair of shoes to enhance my modest career wardrobe. But despite my reservations, I made the purchase.
At 23, my weekends were consumed with weddings—whether as a guest, a bridesmaid, or the designated guest-book keeper. The dresses I had brought from my college dorm were outdated and faded, leaving me feeling self-conscious at every wedding reception.
Even two decades later, I can still vividly recall the rich emerald hue and the delicate lace trim. The luxurious fabric felt cool against my sun-kissed skin, and I had never worn anything quite so expensive. It hugged my youthful curves perfectly, making me feel stunningly beautiful every time I slipped it on.
For years, I wore that green dress to countless weddings—those of high school friends, college mates, and even new acquaintances from work. I styled it in various ways, adapting it for different seasons with scarves, jewelry, and shoes I borrowed or snagged on sale.
Those were joyful times—days spent creating ribbon bouquets and nights filled with dancing to feel-good tunes from the ’70s. I often confided in my best friend, after indulging in too many wine coolers, that attending work meetings at the accounting firm felt like wearing grown-up clothes while my friends tied the knot on Saturday nights.
After my own wedding, I moved the green dress from the one-bedroom apartment I shared with my dog, Max, to my new husband’s condo. I wore it a few times as a newlywed and relished not having to catch the bouquet anymore. The following year, I proudly hung it in the spacious walk-in closet of our first home—a bright three-bedroom where sunlight poured in through wide windows. Life was good.
Before long, the pitter-patter of little feet filled our home. The days blurred into months and years, filled with baby showers and sleepless nights. The green dress became a forgotten relic, hidden behind maternity clothes and nursing tops. I never felt the need to buy a special outfit for baby showers, considering how quickly my body was changing.
As the babies transformed into toddlers, the green dress found itself discarded during a closet clean-out one spring evening. I tried to convince myself it was just a dress as I tossed it in with other unworn clothes. I accepted that I would never fit into it again, and although I felt a twinge of sadness, I recognized it no longer fit my life. I asked my husband to take the donation bags to a local women’s shelter, unable to part with my cherished dress myself.
The funerals came quietly, without the fanfare of weddings or births. I attended the service of a friend’s mother and sat in the back pew, grappling with the reality that one day I might be on the other side of the aisle. I witnessed my husband’s best friend, heartbroken, carrying his own son while mourning his mother. We celebrated my father-in-law’s life in our home with his favorite foods after his sudden passing, a stark reminder of life’s fragility.
Amid the chaos of homework and sports practices, I discovered my own voice, no longer looking for someone else to guide me. One evening, while unwinding with a glass of red wine, I stumbled upon a stunning navy blue dress in a catalog—a piece I would have previously dismissed as “too old-fashioned.” Yet, it captivated me with its classic design and flattering fit for my now middle-aged figure.
“This would make the perfect funeral dress,” I mused, momentarily debating the morbid nature of buying such an item. But as I reflected on the inevitability of loss, I realized I was tired of scrambling for appropriate attire while managing grief. I knew firsthand the right outfit could give me the strength to face life’s toughest moments.
The dress was $112—a worthy investment, and thankfully not black, which I found too dreary. A few days later, it arrived in a nondescript gray package. I tucked it into the hall closet to try on later, away from prying eyes.
When the house was finally quiet, I slipped the dress over my head. To my surprise, I liked my reflection—a rare occurrence in recent years. I felt beautiful and comfortable, seeing the version of myself I still held inside. This dress would be a keeper.
As I hung it carefully in my closet, I tried not to envision the somber occasions it might be worn for. Instead, I silently wished for a long time before needing to wear it again. Closing the closet door, I headed off to bed, hoping for brighter days ahead.
Summary:
In this reflective piece, Emma L. Thompson recounts her journey through weddings and funerals, marked by the significant role of a green dress that represented her youthful self. As life transitions from joyous celebrations to moments of loss, she finds comfort in a new navy dress, symbolizing strength and resilience. The narrative explores the evolution of identity and the importance of finding one’s own voice amidst life’s changes.