The dress cost $85—a splurge that nearly wiped out my entertainment budget for June. Guilt gnawed at me for spending so much on one piece when I could have used that money for new work blouses or a pair of shoes to expand my fledgling career wardrobe. But I went ahead and bought it anyway.
At 23, my weekends revolved around weddings—whether as a guest, bridesmaid, or even a guest book attendant. The dresses I had brought from my college dorm were outdated and faded, and I longed to feel confident at each wedding reception.
Even now, two decades later, I can still picture that stunning emerald hue and the delicate lace trim. The silky fabric felt luxurious against my sun-kissed skin. I had never owned anything so expensive, and it hugged my youthful curves just right. Each time I donned that dress, I felt like a million bucks.
For years, I wore that green dress to seemingly countless weddings—friends from high school, college, and even new coworkers. I dressed it up and down, adding scarves, jewelry, and shoes that I either borrowed or snagged on clearance. Those years were filled with laughter: crafting ribbon bouquets as friends unwrapped wedding gifts, savoring bite-sized crab cakes, and dancing to cheesy ’70s hits. Late-night conversations with my best friend often revealed my insecurities about feeling like a child in adult clothes while balancing work meetings and wedding festivities.
After my own wedding, I moved the green dress from my one-bedroom apartment with my black Lab to my husband’s condo. I wore it a few more times as a newlywed, relishing not needing to catch the bouquet anymore. The following year, I proudly hung it in the spacious walk-in closet of our new home—a lovely three-bedroom space filled with sunlight. Life was blissful.
Then came the babies. The whirlwind of days and years blurred together as I attended, hosted, and celebrated numerous baby showers. The green dress hung neglected behind maternity clothes and nursing tops. I never splurged on a special outfit for baby showers, knowing my body would change weekly, making it feel pointless to invest in something likely to be stained.
As the babies turned into kids, the green dress met an unceremonious fate during a closet purge one spring evening. I tried to convince myself it was just a dress as I tossed it into a pile with other fashion missteps and well-loved items. No amount of dieting or exercise would return me to that dress size, and I accepted that reality. Yet, I felt a pang of sadness as I acknowledged that it no longer fit my life. I asked my husband to drop the bags at the women’s shelter; I couldn’t bear to be the one to bid farewell to a cherished friend.
Funerals arrived with far less celebration than the weddings and baby showers. A friend from church lost her mother, and I sat with a heavy heart, realizing that one day I might find myself in her shoes. I watched my husband’s lifelong friend walk down the aisle behind his mother’s casket, cradling his 7-year-old son. A hundred people gathered at my home to honor my father-in-law after he unexpectedly passed away while washing his truck. The losses were profound, and amid juggling homework and sports uniforms, I found my own voice instead of waiting for someone else to guide me.
One evening, after a long day of shuttling my kids around, I found a navy blue dress in a glossy catalog that seemed to leap off the page. I had long dismissed that store as catering to older women, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to its classic silhouettes. This dress was simply stunning—well-crafted and flattering for my now more mature figure. It was low-cut without being matronly, suitable for encounters with the middle school principal.
“That would make a perfect funeral dress,” I mused, then hesitated at the thought of buying an outfit specifically for such occasions. After a mental tug-of-war, I resigned myself to the reality that I would continue to lose loved ones throughout my life. I was tired of piecing together funeral-appropriate attire from my lively wardrobe while managing travel plans and casseroles. Though clothes can’t erase grief, I knew from experience that the right outfit could provide a sense of strength during challenging times.
At $112, it was a reasonable investment, especially since it wasn’t black—too dreary for my taste, and I’d realized black only made me look more exhausted. Navy, however, was a different story. A few days later, the dress arrived in a nondescript gray package. I tucked it away in the hall closet, eager to try it on in private.
When the house was quiet later that night, I slipped the dress over my head. To my surprise, I liked what I saw in the mirror—a rare occurrence these days. I felt beautiful and comfortable, and the reflection matched the person I felt like inside, albeit an older version. This dress was definitely a keeper.
As I carefully hung it in my walk-in closet, I avoided envisioning the occasions it would eventually accompany me to. Instead, I silently wished for ample time before I’d need it again. With that thought, I shut the closet door and headed for bed.
In summary, life is a series of beautiful and heartbreaking moments, marked by the outfits we wear. From a stunning green dress that accompanied many weddings to a navy blue dress signifying loss and resilience, clothing carries memories and emotions. As we navigate through joys and sorrows, finding what makes us feel good—even in tough times—can be a source of strength.
Keyphrase: funeral dress
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