The "Not-A-Dress" Dress

“I can change into these by myself,” Jenn said quickly, clutching the garments like shields. “You know. In case Date Night Me wants to surprise even you.”

Valerie shook her head sympathetically, like Jenn had just asked if clouds were solid.

“Oh, I’ll be staying in here.”

Jenn blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s store policy. I’m here for garment safety...” she said, patting the pile of delicate fabrics, “...and client safety. You’d be amazed how many women have dislocated shoulders trying to get out of jumpers.”

“I’ve dislocated my dignity just standing here,” Jenn muttered.

But Valerie was already moving quietly to the chaise lounge, hands politely folded like an overly enthusiastic lady’s maid. Jenn stared at her. Valerie smiled encouragingly. Jenn realized she had no escape.

“Okay,” she sighed, “but no sudden movements, no gasping.”

Valerie nodded solemnly. Jenn turned away and began undressing like someone defusing a bomb. Shoes off. Jeans off. Sweater over her head. She now stood in her white cotton full-back panties and tan comfort bra, a pairing last seen in the Functional But Unlovable section of a department store bin. Her arms shot across her body in self-defense.

“I usually wear… sexier things,” she lied.

Valerie nodded as if Jenn had just declared she usually rode a cheetah to work. “Of course.”

Jenn groaned. “Please erase this visual from your memory.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Valerie said casually. “Once you’re in this, no one will remember your underwear.”

Jenn turned and froze. Because Valerie was holding the Not-a-Dress.

The barely-there sheer, shimmering, fabric-in-theory-only dress that only made sense on someone who floated rather than sat.

“…That’s not a dress,” Jenn whispered.

“It’s aspirational fabric,” Valerie corrected. “Arms up,”

Jenn lifted her arms like a prisoner accepting her fate.