A Blue Taffeta Dress

Let me tell you about a dress and the last time I felt beautiful.

Growing up I had an obsession with the past, particularly the time of western expansion in the United States. I loved books like “Little House” and all the American girl diaries. I wanted clothes to match and my grandmother obligingly made me a simple long sleeved calico dress that I wore until it was practically rags. I quickly learned that I too could learn how to make my own clothes and it would put me in touch with the people that were in my books that had to make their own clothes by hand.

I learned the basics of course from this grandmother, a quick witted woman with blue eyes that picked up on every detail of a complicated weaving pattern, beadwork or a watercolor. She once made me change the patterns I had chosen for an Arran sweater she was knitting me, because one of the cables I had chosen was “too boring and easy”.

I learned quickly to there was a bit of a loophole in any sort of dress code my parents set out for me. If I could make it, I was allowed to wear it. I suspect that some of the crop tops I did make did push the limit of their tolerance. However by the time I was in high school I was a reasonably competent seamstress and sewing was one of the few things my ADHD brain could focus on. Perhaps because it was a series of small tasks that lent themselves well to being skipped around on or each aspect I found had a satisfying tactile result. The ability to smooth out cotton with a very hot iron or the snick of a pair of sharp scissors in thick wool gave me enough temporary jolts of the feel good chemicals that my brain craved that I was able to stick with it.

So naturally I decided that I should make my own prom dress for junior year. I went to a very upscale school in the Washington DC area so I was practically guaranteed to be the only person there in a homemade dress. I was also guaranteed that I would be spending the least amount of money on a dress out of everyone there. So I took some of my babysitting money and went to the fabric store.

After deliberating for probably an hour I found a navy blue taffeta that I loved. I found a halter top pattern with a full length slightly flared skirt and got some grommets and green ribbon as well. I chose black satin to line the dress and I altered the pattern to make a corset back which was very on brand for my semi goth phase I was going through.

I loved making that dress. To date I had not made much for myself that was not either made of quilting cotton or denim. The high quality taffeta and the smoothness of the satin parted easily under my sharp scissors and slid through the foot of my ancient sewing machine with ease. I barely came up for air, only stopping to go on a mandatory run per my track coach and for snacks, which were eaten far away from my dress.

My mother’s ex-model friend lent me some earrings and a necklace that would match the dress and I already had tall strappy black shoes that I had pretty much been wearing for the past two days. Simply so I could slip my dress on and check for length as I was sewing it. I made sure that the black lace that I had put around the lining would just peak out as I walked.

Then I hung up the dress and did not touch it until prom night. When I pulled it out of my bag at my friend’s house I just heard an ‘ooooo’ go around the room. I was so careful with it during dinner and in the limo as we drove around the city, pretending to be far older than seventeen. When I got out of the limo at the hotel where our prom was I quickly posted up in a safe spot near the wall, where I could watch the dance floor and see my friends, but could bail if necessary.

Quickly though I was holding court. Seniors who I never spoken to were coming up to me and telling me that I looked beautiful. Classmates who I was relatively friendly with at that point but were never close were bringing their dates by to say hello. Every crafter knows that feeling when you get to reveal that you made it after someone complements a garment. It was a strange feeling, this business of being popular because of a dress. I did eventually venture out on the dance floor, hopped up on enough caffeine that I could see God. And the dress did perfectly, it swished around my ankles and flared out when I was swing dancing with one of my friends.

I managed to keep in intact all night, and even though I had to change out of it during the after party to not become a social pariah (after all I did not want to be the only weirdo who is still wearing her prom dress), but I would have worn it until dawn.

Then I hung it up and never wore it again.