Last month, I bought a few dresses online. For no particular reason. I just like pretty dresses. I find myself obsessing over the length of the dresses. They seem to be a decent length on the models, but let’s face it: Stores aren’t using tall women to model their clothing. I’m always worried that I will get the dress and it will be too short.
This was the case for not one, but two dresses I ordered. I tried the first one on–the one I liked more. Knit, sleeveless, striped and fitted. I faced the mirror and realized that not only was it short, it was hella tight. On the website, it was a nice evening dress, but on me it was a certified freakum dress. After toiling over the idea of sending it back, I decided to file it away for later use (my trip to Vegas).
I had a moment of self-discovery. I’m a fairly conservative dresser.
Not in a “I only wear skirts past my knees” or “I don’t wear sleeveless shirts.” You’ll find nothing but tank tops, tubes and halters in my closet. I believe in showing skin, but within reason.
One of my BFFs noticed it, too. Just the other night, she asked why that is. My answer:
“Weird things happen to me when I wear short dresses, skirts or shorts.”
It’s so true. Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
Fall 2004, I returned to Baton Rouge for a new semester of school. I’d bought these red (Get-It Girl) shorts atleast a year ago that I’d yet to wear. Again, I guess I thought they were too short. The first party of the semester was at the end of the week–you know, the one you CAN’T miss. As luck would have it, I became ill a few days before the party. I self-diagnosed myself with a slight cold and immediately began medicating myself. I was going to be at that party.
Saturday arrived and I felt better. I took the plunge and put on the red shorts, a tank top and heels. Just before we left, I took a Tylenol Sinus for reinforcement. We got to the venue and walked around. This was my first time wearing short shorts (with stilettos). In a way, I felt liberated. The party was great: flashing lights, old friends and good ole’ ratchet jig and bounce music.
Standing there with the girls, a friend’s cousin, who’s like family, offered me a drink. I was a bit parched. Why not? I took one sip, savored it and continued my two-step. In an instant, I started to feel dizzy. Nausea had set in. I grabbed him, then the closest rail to maintain my balance. I regained my composure for a brief moment and decided to go to the ladies room.
I took a step….and it happened. I could feel myself falling, and there was nothing I could do about it. I passed the hell out. I hit the floor probably in some dramatic way, as I only I can do–sprawled out across the floor in those damn shorts. I only saw darkness. I vaguely remember being carried across the club, like a waiter does a server platter, by some random frat brothers (shout out to the Bruhz!). When I came to, I was in the club’s office sitting next to a nursing major named Ursula, who wanted to use me as a practice patient. She asked me if I’d had Xstacy lately. WTF?
All I could do was wonder where my clutch was and how terrible it would be if I had to wait in the DMV for another license. As I dispatched friends to various parts of the club to look for my bag, I walked back to the scene of the crime. This is what I heard:
“Damn, she fell hard as hell!
“You had one too many drinks, huh.”
Or my favorite:
“Damn, slim, I saw you pass out. You alright? I like your shorts, yea.” FML
As I continued my walk of shame, I was even more embarrassed because I passed out due to me going out and not being fully well, but it looked as if I passed out drunk (which I’ve never done before). What a bummer.
It could have been worse though. I could have had on a dress.
Note: That’s not me!