Last week, I realized I didn't have anything suitable to wear to an evening winter wedding as my dresses (and they are many) are either cotton shifts for the office or sundresses. A few years ago, I would have frantically run out to some awful fast-fashion circle of hell and grabbed some cheapy ersatz frock and called it close enough for jazz. And it would have been too short for me, because despite being just 5'8" and not terribly leggy, everything is too short for me.
I sent Lauren a message at 4:30 p.m. on Wednesday asking her if she could help me out. I went straight to her apartment from work and she had 10 dresses laid out on her bed oh and here's some wine and cheese and crackers. What a hero. The first one I tried on was just the ticket (I tried on all the other ones anyway) and it made me nostalgic for living with girls. I used to love trading clothes with my sister growing up, with Jenn in college. (Not Michelle due to her being a tiny human. I do miss living with you though, Michelle. Nick judges my TV choices. The nerve.)
The last time I visited Jenn, I felt so stale from riding in an under-air-conditioned bus full of strangers' farts for two hours that I more or less begged to borrow a dress to wear to dinner as soon as I set foot in her apartment. She said "definitely" because have you met Jenn? and it was the best.
Borrowing beats the hell out of consuming. Which reminds me, I need to dry-clean the very lovely lace dress I wore on Saturday. Dancing alone to "Brick House" in front of 100 stationary onlookers is a sweaty business.