What I Wore on the Red Carpet

I fell in love with a completely different dress! But could I even have it, or would I have to settle?

Phew. It feels like a strange moment to be thinking about anything fun or frivolous. But last night was nonetheless a big moment for me: the National Book Foundation Awards—sometimes known (slightly tongue-in-cheek) as the Oscars of the book world—where Unshrinking was a finalist in non-fiction. And I wanted to write today about what it felt like to walk the red carpet—for the first and almost certainly last time in my life—feeling comfortable, dare I say good, even.

To have fun with fashion at this juncture in our political life felt like an impossible task even a week ago. But the thought that kept me going was that Trump doesn’t get to steal all of our joy or pleasure or even our precarious sense of accomplishment. And books matter now more than ever.

When I left you in this journey, friends, I had found a dress for the gala that I was reasonably happy with. Here it is, as a reminder:

I had tried on so many other options. I had vented and ranted about the difficulty of finding a black tie dress that worked, even on my now admittedly small fat or perhaps even borderline fat, body. I was fine with the above choice. But I found myself wanting something better than fine. Something I felt more strongly about—something a bit more special. Glamorous, even.

So I steeled myself, during a recent Kansas City conference I was giving the plenary address for, to go shopping in-person. It felt daunting, as memories of getting stuck in terrible dresses in too-small changing rooms in stores that barely carried my size (or plain didn’t) all came flooding back to me. The feeling my body was wrong for not fitting into anything. The feeling of being anomalous. The feeling of exhaustion.

I can’t believe how it went in the end. I fell in love with another dress… but it looked like I’d have to settle anyway.

I had walked into Hall’s, which is sort of like Nordstom, in Kansas City, and navigated my way to the fancy dress section. I turned my head and gasped. There it was: the perfect cut from my favorite designer (though I own just one summer dress in this label, bought on deep discount), in my size, in the perfect slightly stiff black cotton poplin fabric. It was the dress I had in my mind that I wished someone could make for me when I first thought about going to this event in September. It was the dress I’d described in my group chat. Classic and elegant and just a little bit dramatic, with the puffy sleeves I so favor.

The only problem was, it seemed to be someone else’s dress: “Lynne,” read the name tag. The price tag was still attached, so I gleaned that Lynne hadn’t purchased it. Yet. But it looked as if it had been set aside for her.

There was a tiny moment where I wondered if I could rip off the name tag and prevent Lynne from getting what I now thought of as my dress. I am not proud of this thought! I am a moral philosopher, after all. I ceased and desisted, of course, after this burst of lunatic temptation.

But who and where was this interloper, Lynne? Why was Lynne, for that matter? I asked the salesperson, slightly frantic, if she had another of these dresses in this size. I steeled myself for a negative answer.

“Oh. I pulled it out for her, but Lynne never showed up to her personal stylist appointment. It’s all yours, honey.” Lord bless Lynne. Lord bless this helpful salesperson. Lord bless Kansas city.

It was love at first try-on.