…holding a dress that was definitely not one of my designer pieces. In my hands was a thick, shapeless, beige wool jumper dress I’d picked up at a discount bin years ago for wintry days inside the house. It looked like a potato sack that had given up on life.
Dana’s jaw dropped as she opened the screen door. Her eyes darted from the wool lump to my empty hands, looking for the garment bag that should have held my red silk Valentino.
“What… is that?” she asked, her voice trembling with confusion.
“It’s the dress you asked to borrow!” I said cheerfully, thrusting the heavy wool bundle toward her.
“Are you insane?” she snapped, refusing to take it. “I wanted one of the fancy ones! The strapless ones! I have a reunion to go to. I need to look successful, not like a monk!”
I put on my most innocent, concerned face. “But Dana, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you said. You were right.”
“Right about what?”
“Priorities,” I said, quoting her own words back to her. “You told me explicitly that my beautiful dresses represent ‘stupid stuff.’ You told me that fancy dresses won’t keep me warm when I’m old and alone. I realized I would be a terrible friend if I let you wear something so impractical and ‘stupid’ just for vanity.”
I shoved the wool sack into her arms. She was too stunned to drop it.
“This,” I gestured to the beige nightmare, “is 100% wool. It will keep you incredibly warm. It’s practical. It’s sensible. It’s exactly the kind of thing a woman with ‘straight priorities’ should wear. I didn’t want you to be a hypocrite in front of all your old college friends by wearing the kind of ‘useless’ fashion you despise so much.”
Her face turned a shade of crimson that actually would have matched my designer gown perfectly. “You’re being a petty witch,” she hissed. “I need a real dress.”
“You have one right there,” I said, stepping back off the porch. “If you want the ‘stupid stuff’ that makes a woman feel beautiful, you have to respect the woman wearing it. Since you can’t do that, you get the warm wool. Enjoy the reunion!”
I turned around and walked to my car, listening to her scream my name. I didn’t look back.
That weekend, I treated myself to a nice glass of wine while wearing my favorite silk slip dress in my living room. I checked Facebook and saw photos from Dana’s reunion. She was wearing an ill-fitting pantsuit she’s owned for a decade, looking absolutely miserable in the background of everyone else’s photos.
I’ve never felt warmer in my life.
