What Difference Does a Dress Make?

            I recently wore, to a garden wedding, a long dress made from a light, ethereal fabric of soft greens and blues. 

At the ceremony I noticed the cute, cute dress my friend Haley was wearing, zebra-striped (if zebras were dark purple), knee-length, and close-fitting. Later, during the dancing, I saw that she was wearing a different dress and said, in surprise, “Haley, you changed clothes!” She said that the other dress was uncomfortable on her but, oh, it would probably fit me, did I want it, it was in her car, let’s go look at it.

            It was not only a cute dress but a very unusual one with a top-to-bottom zipper on the side and an Ivanka Trump tag on it. Could I bring myself to wear an Ivanka Trump dress? Somehow the idea of an Ivanka Trump dress on me, of all people, seemed to be a joke on her – she would be appalled. I wasn’t the sort of person she had in mind when she designed the dress. So, yes, I could.  (Take that, Trump!) Casting a quick eye to make sure no one was around, I stripped off my soft green and blue dress and put on the slinky, tight-fitting (but fittingly tight) purple-zebra-striped dress. It fit! Haley really did give it to me, and now I, too, had changed clothes in the middle of the evening.

            Rejoining the party, giggling in anticipation of the surprise of the man I had come with (“Diana! You changed clothes!”), I looked for and found him. We chatted, we had a glass of wine, we danced – not a word. Is it possible he never even noticed?

            It was possible. Such has happened before. The first time I took a camp dress on a wilderness trip with my friend Phil, I put it on the first night after my swim, the second night, the third night – and on the third night Phil looked at me in astonishment and said, “You brought a dress?!” I said in exasperation, “Yes, and I’ve worn it for the past three nights.”

         Sometimes, though, the dress does make an impression. Years ago, at Cliff Lake in the Marble Mountain Wilderness with my friend Louann, who also brings a dress on backpacking trips, we naturally changed into our camp dresses in the evening. We were cooking our dinners when three men with fishing rods walked by our camp on the way to their own. They acknowledged our presence and passed on by. Shortly afterward, sitting by the lake to watch twilight slowly nudge daylight out of the way, we heard people on the trail again.

         “Knock-knock,” said a jovial male voice, and the three fishermen ducked through the trees into our campsite.

         “We just thought we’d come by and introduce ourselves,” the first one said and did so, calling names and grounding each name with a place.

         He, Mr. Seattle, was the outgoing, hearty one. Mr. Jacksonville, ungainly with braces on his teeth, a skinny frame, and carrot hair, slouched behind Mr. Seattle, grinning, saying little. Mr. Medford also said little but stood forthright and bold, unapologetic but unobtrusive. I understood, therefore, the following scenario:

         Mr. Seattle, Mr. Jacksonville, and Mr. Medford, returning to their campsite from their fishing spot on the lake, had passed our camp, looked up to say hello, and seen two women – my god, in dresses! – sitting on white rocks against a sparkling Cliff Lake with the 1300-foot, sunset-gold headwall of the cirque behind them. Mr. Jacksonville had the original idea: “Hey, come on! Let’s go introduce ourselves to the girls. Want to? Huh? Yeah. You can go first.”

         Mr. Seattle: “Well, sure. I’m not shy. We’ll just knock on their door – ha-ha – and go right in.” He and Mr. Jacksonville turned to Mr. Medford.

         Mr. Jacksonville: “Whattaya say? Huh? Wanna say hi to the girls? Huh?” Yuk-yuk-yuk.

         Mr. Medford: “If you go, I’ll go with you, but it’s your idea, not mine.”

         Maybe it’s the way of women, but after they left, Louann and I laughed and laughed. “It was the dresses,” I said. “I’m sure it was the dresses.” Louann agreed. Femininity is such a lure.

         Sometimes.