Vogue Couturier Design, copyright 1956
I introduce you, dear readers, to my favorite dressy dress, my favorite ballroom dancing dress. It’s June Allyson and Cyd Charisse gently stirred, not shaken. Yes, this beauty does require pantyhose, and that, pals, is a definite drawback. But. I feel so elegant, so marvelous, so irresistible in this frock that I will endure the discomfort. Occasionally. It is, without a doubt, my go-to dress for those times when I cannot weasel out of shaving my legs and slithering into what surely must be today’s equivalent to the girdle, pantyhose. And, no, I do not wear tummy control. Sheesh. Manufacturers make it sound so warm, so fuzzy: tummy control, not abdomen control. Puppies have tummies. Toddlers have tummies. Teddy bears have tummies. Women have abs if they pay regular visits to the gym, stomachs if they don't. Not tummies. Do the packages carry a warning: Wearing enclosed undergarment may severely hamper breathing? I've never read the fine print — I'm too busy stockpiling air before struggling to get the pantyhose over my thighs.
Do I sound like a tomboy? Like I squeal when made to scrub behind my ears? I’m really not. In fact, there was a time when I wore nylons every day. In the humid heat. I digress. Let me get back to the dress. The dress I wear when I want to get my glamour on.
Note the details: The bound buttonholes that form a queenly base for the covered buttons. The peaks that soar almost to the waistline. (The peaks that hide pockets!) The wide collar that so clearly states this dress is more than a just a contender. This is why I want to sew.