Iron Maiden

I had tickets to a hot date--with my girlfriend. For the first time since giving birth, both of us planned to celebrate the momentous occasion of a Girl's Night Out. Freedom from our kids! Freedom from our men! Absolute Unencumbered Freedom. 

Our destination:  one of Portland's hottest auctions; a huge money-maker that generates over $500,000 in a three-hour evening from the city's biggest philanthropists. Neither of us were planning to bid on its luxury offerings. $15,000 for a Tahitian get-away? No problem. $10,000 for wine tasting at Chateauneuf du Papes? Uh, huh. $5,000 to sponsor a child? Suuure, just let me double-check with my accountant. 

But after a few glasses of wine, there are exceptions. Always exceptions. 

(Like the previous year when Handsome and my girlfriend's husband attended this popular auction and the duo was last spotted holding the stems of three wine glasses whereas, I, relegated to the job of auction volunteer, was stone-cold sober; and only later when Handsome approached me and slurred, I'm sorry, did I learn that my faithful husband, in an elated drunken state that had been rapidly propelled into a frenzied nirvana by the rhythmic chanting of the auctioneer succubus, raised their paddle--and won--four bottles of wine for the low, low price of $3,000.)

Um, yeah. The men were definitely staying home this year.

I, on the other hand, needed a dress. And not just any ordinary dress. I needed a dress that could blend in with the haute couture crowd. 

I practically lunged at the brushed-gold number hanging on the rack. It had the right amount of bling: neither understated nor overwhelming. And I loved the detailed stitching on the back:

But the straps kept falling off my shoulders (don't you hate that?), and the shiny fabric highlighted and over-accentuated my curves (which bordered on unflattering in some areas). Yet most heinous was that my ladies--my beautiful, life-giving ladies--looked like they were crumpled up and tossed into the trash. 

This dress offered zero support--which was promptly explained when I looked at the tag: BCBG. Wait a minute... this dress was made for Juniors! Probably a girl wore this to her prom--and with ladies as firm as green mangoes to boot!

Then an idea hit me. Maybe, just maybe it would work... I needed to rush home and pilfer through my supplies closet. If it was a match, I had this number's number. I could prove I was still the boss of this garment.

Let's see what I did...