Bringing Back Rubenesque

"Well," I say to my husband, throwing a few shopping bags on the floor, "I have a shape, just not the shape I'd like to have."

He raises his eyebrow at me; we're going to a charity dinner tonight, virtually the only annual occasion where we have to get sort of dressed up, and I spent a stressful afternoon shopping for something to wear.

"I'm going a little daring tonight," I say, and he raises the other eyebrow.

I took Greta with me as a fashion consultant, trying on and discarding countless dresses, flowing skirts and ruffled shirts (when did ruffles come in again?  And, for God's sake, WHY?) until settling on two options:   the Safe Bet and the Boob Shirt.     I still don't know if I'm going to be courageous enough to wear Option #2.

I used to be proud of my, er, top section, considering it one of my best features.   But two kids, turning 40 and gravity, and, well, you get the idea.  I have spent the past four wintry months in stretchy black pants and an oversized polar fleece pullover.  I don't think I have even seen my arms in months.   

The Safe Bet is a pretty coral tank top with a black cape-like wrap.   Shapeless, but still slightly stylish.   

This particular event can be tough for me, drinking wise (or not-drinking wise, as the case may be).    We've been going for over five years, and I used to look forward to it, because of the emphasis on drinking.     My first year sober I skipped it; I wasn't ready.    Last year I went, but felt itchy and frumpy all night.   I'm looking for a change.

I step out of the shower, wrap up in a towel, and glare at the two outfits lying on my bed.    With a sigh, I reach for the Safe Bet and put it on.   It doesn't look bad.   It doesn't look like anything, really.    I did find a pair of sexy black shoes on sale, and some form fitting black pants that fit me well.    But when I wrap the cape-like shawl around my shoulders, I look like a woman who is hiding.   I don't want to hide anymore.

I grit my teeth and put on Option #2: the Boob Shirt.   Don't get me wrong, it's hardly racy - it has a form fitting black stretchy shell with a three-quarter sleeve crepe-like (see?  I don't even know what the material is called) shirt that ties in the front.    Right under, ahem, The Girls.      Along with the black pants and spiky shoes, it is a look that feels alien to me.   Something a confident person would wear.   Something a size zero woman could pull off no problem.   I've got curves, and they make me nervous.    I throw back my shoulders, stick out my chin and say to my reflection:   "I will not wimp out."

When my husband sees the outfit, he blinks twice and says, "Wow," in a neutral way.   My resolve crumbles.    He back pedals, and says "I don't mean that it doesn't look good, it's just, so, different for you."   I spin for him, a questioning look on my face.   He breaks into a huge grin.   "Go for it," he says.   "You look really good."

On my spiky heels I tower at just over six feet tall.    I picture all the curvy, voluptuous women I've seen who don't hide their femininity.   Nothing makes a woman look frumpier than when she is ashamed of her own shape.

Tonight, I'm gonna bring it, I think.

And I do.


P.S. - Sorry about the bad picture quality, and the lack of a smile.  I'm not coordinated enough to hold a camera and smile and take a self-portrait at the same time.   I had to re-create the outfit, with nobody else available to take the pic.   But at least you get the idea....  :)