The dress cost $85, which felt outrageously pricey at the time. It nearly consumed my entire entertainment budget for June, leaving me guilty about splurging on a single article of clothing when I desperately needed work blouses and perhaps a new pair of shoes to enhance my limited career wardrobe. Yet, I bought it anyway.
At 23, my weekends were dominated by weddings—whether as a guest, bridesmaid, or even managing the guest book. The dresses I had brought from college felt outdated and faded, and I was tired of feeling self-conscious at every celebration.
Even two decades later, I can still vividly recall the stunning emerald hue and the intricate lace adorning the hem. The silky fabric felt cool and luxurious against my sun-kissed skin. I had never worn anything quite so exquisite. The dress hugged my youthful curves perfectly, making me feel breathtakingly beautiful every time I slipped it on.
I wore that green dress to what felt like an endless string of weddings in the following years. Friends from high school, college, and new acquaintances all seemed to be tying the knot. I dressed it up and down, adapting it for winter and summer with scarves, jewelry, and shoes I either borrowed or snagged on clearance. Those days were filled with joy—crafting ribbon bouquets on paper plates while my friends unpacked endless kitchen gadgets, enjoying bite-sized crab cakes, and dancing to nostalgic tunes from the ’70s. Sometimes, after a few too many wine coolers, I would confide to my best friend that I felt like a child playing dress-up while navigating work meetings at the accounting firm and witnessing my friends exchange vows.
After my own wedding, I moved the green dress from my cozy one-bedroom apartment, shared with my beloved black Lab, to my new husband’s condo. As a newlywed, I wore it a few times but relished no longer having to stand amidst the dance floor to catch the bouquet. The following year, I hung the dress proudly in the spacious walk-in closet of our first home, a lovely three-bedroom place filled with sunshine. Life felt perfect.
Then, the babies arrived sooner than expected. Days turned into months, and months into years, blurring into a whirlwind of baby showers—both hosting and attending. The green dress hung forgotten behind maternity clothes, overshadowed by nursing tops. It seemed pointless to invest in special outfits for baby showers when my body was changing at such a rapid pace.
As my babies grew into children, the beloved green dress ended up in the donation pile during a closet clean-out one spring evening. I tried to convince myself it was just a dress as I tossed it in with other fashion missteps and well-worn clothes. No amount of dieting or exercise would ever bring me back to that size, and I accepted that reality. I felt a twinge of sadness that the dress no longer fit my life, so I asked my husband to take the donation bags to a women’s shelter; I couldn’t bear to part with it myself.
Funerals arrived with far less fanfare than weddings or the joy of new life. A friend’s mother passed away, and I sat in the back pew, heavy-hearted, realizing that one day I would be in my friend’s position. I watched my husband’s lifelong friend walk down the church aisle, cradling his seven-year-old son while grieving his mother’s passing. And we gathered 100 people at our house to celebrate my father-in-law’s life after his sudden heart attack while washing his truck one summer evening. These losses were profound and life-altering. Somewhere between managing homework and washing soccer uniforms, I found my own voice, no longer looking for the grown-ups to guide me.
One evening, while bonding with a glass of red wine after a day of driving my kids around, I stumbled upon a navy blue dress in a glossy catalog. I had often dismissed the store as catering to older women, but I had grown fond of their classic styles over the years. This dress was beautiful—well-made and flattering for my now middle-aged figure. It was low-cut enough to feel youthful yet appropriate for encounters with my child’s middle school principal.
“That would make a perfect funeral dress,” I thought, then immediately questioned the morbid nature of buying a dress for such occasions. After some inner debate, I acknowledged that loss would be a part of my life until my own funeral day. I was over piecing together funeral-appropriate attire from my otherwise vibrant wardrobe while managing travel plans and baking casseroles. While I understood that clothing wouldn’t erase grief, I learned from experience that the right outfit could provide the strength needed to navigate those challenging moments.
The navy blue dress was priced at $112—a great deal, and it wasn’t black. Black had always felt too dreary to me, making me appear more exhausted than I was. But navy? That I could embrace. Days later, the dress arrived in a plain gray package on my doorstep. I tucked it away in the hall closet behind backpacks and soccer cleats so I could try it on in privacy.
Later that night, as the house slept, I slipped into the dress. To my delight, I liked what I saw in the mirror—something that doesn’t happen often these days. I felt beautiful, and the reflection matched the person I felt like inside, even if it was an older version. The dress was a keeper.
As I hung it carefully in the back of my walk-in closet, I tried not to envision the occasions it would accompany me to in the future. Instead, I made a quiet wish that it would be some time before I would need to wear it again. Gently closing the closet door, I headed to bed.
This article was originally published on July 31, 2015. For more insights on home insemination, check out this helpful resource on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This reflective piece recounts a woman’s journey through life events marked by weddings and funerals, focusing on the personal significance of two dresses. The emerald green dress symbolizes her vibrant youth and joyful moments shared with friends, while the navy blue dress represents the acceptance of life’s inevitable losses. Ultimately, both garments serve as reminders of the transitions and emotional growth she has experienced over the years.