Dress: I was a big Wonder Woman fan as a child. Specifically Linda Carter Wonder Woman show. I found it a very comforting. In part because I thought Lynda Carter looked a fair amount like my mom in those days, and more complicatedly I had it in mind that it was part of the same universe as “Bewitched.” I liked the idea of her as a superhero couldn’t figure out what you would do in an invisible plane if you had to use the bathroom. For my fifth birthday I got a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos for my fourth birthday. These were disappointing because they didn’t look anything like the actual Wonder Woman bustier leotard situation, and I was a stickler for authenticity.
Bustiers are non-starters on five-year-olds, as are strapless evening gowns, another thing seeming centuries coveting. By the time I late-bloomed into strapless garmets making sense from shape-perspective, the appeal had dimmed considera bly. Turns out, boobs makes strapless things altogether more complicated, and the more boobs you have, the truer this is. The most unbelievable thing about Wonder Woman is not the superpowers or the magical lassos or still untouristed pristine Greek Isles, but the idea that a strapless bustier—nylon, leather, iron, whatever—would be anyone’s first choice for great outfit for fighting evildoers.
This, or course, is a man problem. Men who drew comics. Men who imagined book covers. Men who directed film, television, plays, etc. Men who could not imagine that their heroic female protagonists would ever look at themselves in the mirror and not gaze appraisingly at their own pert and supple breasts and admire their fit, but curvy figures.[1] Men are clearly fascinated by boobs, but many of them, at least the kind inclined to envision Wonder Woman et. al, don’t seem to understand that cleavage is neither impervious to threat nor the source of a woman’s physical strength and thus must be exposed at all time. Which is the only possible explanation I can come up with the bustiers, boob armor, and boob holes that populate the greater women-saving-the-world mythos.
That brings us to the dress. This dress also features a boob hole. I don’t entirely understand it either. The neckline is, as we say, “a design choice,” and much like the equally inexplicable cold shoulder, it strikes me as an attempt to have one’s cake and eat it too. I’m not sure it works. I spend a lot of time in this dress adjusting my upper half, so as not to expose more of me than strictly necessary. The fabric–brocade and bedspread-adjacent—has some give and the pencil skirt has a slit, so it doesn’t impede movement. But I’m telling you right now that this dress would not be my first choice for saving the world or even saving the dinner party. On the plus, I didn’t pay full price for it. So, there’s that consolation.
The Outfit: I have worn this dress exactly twice. Both times were to dinner at a Relais & Chateaux, in 2022 at The Old Edwards Inn and at 2024 at The Fearrington House. I’ve lived about ten miles down the road from the latter for almost twenty-two years. This night was my first time eating there. I suspected the food would not disappoint but didn’t expect to be quite as charmed by the scenery, the staff, and the table beside us full of people enthusiastically celebrating their friends 80th birthday. I hope my own 80th (should I make it that far) will be that much fun.
The flowers were out, and the shrubs were greening. The most unsettling part of global warming is a late February that already smells like hyacinths and cherry blossoms because it’s difficult to not also find it magical. My birthday was once so often inconvenienced by winter weather. It’s hard to believe how often my parties were rescheduled because of so much snow. It wasn’t even that long ago.
I mean, relatively speaking.
I sat up after dinner in my stage bed and read a delightfully weird Kathryn Davis novel about suburban sorcerers and depressed teenage robots (recommended). I fell asleep sitting up. At some point in the night, I woke and saw the outline of the dress on the back of a chair and for about two seconds thought I was being haunted by a slithering sheep. The boob hole was finally what gave it away.
Dress: Anthropologie, 2022
Earrings: Peel, Carrboro, 2021
Shoes: Madewell, 2023
[1] I mean, I’ve never been a heroic female protagonist, but I’m way more likely to look at myself in the mirror and think, maybe I should get that mole checked out or I’m concerned this evolving eye-bag situation is going to leave me looking like Kenneth Branagh (no offense to you, Kenneth Branagh) or wonder how long I’ve had this toothpaste on my chin?
Tiny Commotions 