As my personal stylist ran away to East Rochester, I've been set adrift in a sea of clothing catastrophes. I'm never sure whether stripes should run east to west or north to south. I have been singularly devoted to the re-introduction of the pleated skort and desire nothing more than a closet full of culottes. Since the last time I was pointed on a plane toward Florida was when I was dressed identically in the same florescent pink as my traveling companion, this time I was determined to travel south in style.
Watching me shuffle uncertainly through racks of shorts that would resemble sausage casings once I managed to successfully wiggle into them, Sydney pointed to a dress. "Mom, you would look just like Joan Wilder in that." I perked up. I loved Romancing the Stone and immediately pictured Brad and I salsa dancing with Goofy, Pluto and pals. We'd really give Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner a run for their money. We'd knock their socks right off.
I excitedly rushed into the dressing room. After a disturbing length of time, Sydney sought me out. "Mom," she called, "let me see." "No," I said forlornly. "C'mon," she coaxed, "I bet you're beautiful." Her smile froze as I stepped out into the hallway. "See, I told you," I accused, "I look more like Chandler's dad on Friends than Joan Wilder." My daughter did not dispute this statement. "Why on earth wouldn't you have taken off your shoes and socks," she asked, bewildered by my time-saving tactic. My full skirt nearly knocked her over as I swung back into the dressing room. "See if you can find some knee-length beige skorts," I shouted, wrestling my way out of my high-waisted Joan Wilder dress. I wondered if I could talk Savannah into wearing identical outfits for our upcoming flight. Sydney breathed a sigh of relief that she was driving down.
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