Say ‘Yes’ to the Jumpsuit

Recently, my grandson Cedric got married to a very lovely girl. They had an outdoor wedding and I needed a nice dress to wear. As grandmother of the groom I knew I needed to up my game from my regular attire. Khaki shorts just weren’t going to cut it, even though they would be a lot cooler.

A few things to know: I don’t like to wear dresses because I don’t look good in dresses. I am short, a little pudgy, and my figure isn’t suited to anything with a waist. Wearing a garment with a waist makes me look like a number eight. Finally, I hate shopping in general. So I really hate shopping for a dress I don’t want to wear.

Save this information for later: during Covid when everyone was working from home, I bought several casual – very casual – dresses online to wear around the house. They were large muumuus and they were extremely comfortable. Not attractive. Comfortable. I could safely hide my short, pudgy body inside them and be confident that no one would see the real me through them.

Now, back to my story. A few weeks before the wedding, I was with my daughters and granddaughters and thought I would get their opinions on my choice of grandmother of the groom outfits for the rehearsal dinner and wedding ceremony. I had chosen my favorite Covid muumuu (from several years ago and obviously out of style) to model for them. To make things fair, I passed out ballots, each with a Yes box and a No box. Each female could give her honest opinion and not worry about offending me. They simply had to check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. They didn’t care about offending me. Not at all. It was plain to see that this dress was not going to make the cut. Someone should have probably explained the concept of ‘secret ballot’ to these girls.  Seven-year-old Belle plainly said, “I don’t like it.” When I asked fifteen-year-old Athena (named for the Greek goddess of wisdom) what would make this dress better, her answer was, “Replace it.” Right about now I’m thinking that we should change her name to Eris, Greek goddess of discord.

My granddaughters are neither short, nor pudgy. They just didn’t get it. I decided to nix the fashion show and take them into town for a treat. By the way, that treat was promised before my fashion show debacle, so I couldn’t withdraw my promise. But I seriously wanted to.

The five of us were walking down Main Street in our little mountain town when Bea spotted a ladies’ clothing boutique. “Let’s go inside and find Mom a dress for the wedding!” No. No. No. Let’s DON’T do that. Ladies who look like a number eight do NOT want to try on dresses in front of two daughters and two granddaughters, all with skinny little bodies. I felt the tears beginning to burn the backs of my eyelids. And did I mention that I had bedhead hair and no makeup on that day?

My daughters went right up to Pam the owner and told her my sad story. I didn’t even get a chance to pull the girls aside and beg them to skip this torture. Pam eyed me up and down, grabbed a dress off the rack, and ordered me to go try it on, which I did.

I liked it.

Pam sent five more dresses back there. This woman knew her business. None of the dresses had a waist. All the dresses flattered my short, pudgy figure. I didn’t look like a number eight. I looked…mature. I made two piles in the dressing room. If Athena gave a dress a thumbs up, the dress went to the Pile of Possible. Thumbs down dresses went to the No Way on This Green Earth pile.

Then Pam stepped over the line. She sent back a silky jumpsuit with a waist. Hadn’t she spotted a Number Eight when I walked into her shop? But Pam spoke with authority, so I tried the jumpsuit on to humor her.

I liked it.

After an hour in there, I bought a dress for the rehearsal dinner, the jumpsuit for the ceremony, and another dress simply because I liked it. And shoes. And a clutch. And jewelry.

The wedding day arrived and it was blazing hot, not surprising for a service outside on a July afternoon with clear skies. But the ceremony was beautiful. The bride was beautiful. And compared to the muumuu look, the grandmother of the groom was beautiful. I was a mature number ONE – still short and a little pudgy, but definitely NOT a number eight.