Tenting Up

On a late winter day in 1998 my mom and I began the quest to find me the perfect prom dress. We walked in and out of stores that accommodated my size, the walls of each shop lined with floral fabrics that were loud, shapeless and billowy. There was no doubt in my mind that these options would prove unflattering to my round shape. Formless fabric would drape on my body and age my plump, youthful face by years, possibly decades. I hated shopping. I timidly stepped into the fitting room with a series of A-line dresses that promised to narrow at my bust and widen as they went down my body; a form likened to a tent. At that exact moment, as I took off my clothes and looked at the reflection of my young face in the mirror, I wondered if it would have been easier to tailor a tent found at a camping store. Years of my grandmother making my skirts allowed me to avoid this very moment. I closed my eyes, sucked my stomach in and put the first dress over my head. As it fell over my form, I was tangled in fabric. I cried in the too tiny dressing room, my body and face lost in waves of pastel prints. I sat on the floor, my breath heavy and heaving, inside of a tent pitched around my body. Eventually I crawled out with my eyes closed. I lifted the dress over my head, thighs touching, in my bra and underwear, I sat, holding the balled up dress in my hands. 

Later in the day we had an appointment at one of the premiere wedding and bridal dress vendors in Brooklyn, NY. Surely I would find the dress of my teenage dreams. A dress to flatter my size and live in photos, forever. Immediately, I saw the dress. Navy blue floor length satin with a line of simple rhinestones around the waist. A chiffon cape covered the shoulders of the mannequin. I swore it would fit. I told myself it would fit. I told myself I would look stunning. I anxiously sat on the couch in the waiting area. The saleswoman approached me and I shyly pointed at the dress, half in hope, half in fear. I whispered “I like the navy one, with the rhinestones.” The salesperson took one look at me and said “Most of our floor model dresses are capped at a size 12 but, honey, we can put panels in it.” I wondered how many panels it would take to make a size 24? Where would they expand from? Would more rhinestones be added? If I so wished, and if we had the money, I could have my body tented in navy blue satin fabric for a very rich cost. A sum of money that my family did not have. A sum of money that I did not want them putting on a credit card. A sum of panels to total a fashionable living space for my body, for only one night. This would not be a dress. We left. 

I went home and looked at my swollen, red face in my heart shaped bedroom mirror. No full length mirrors allowed. I crawled into my bed. I made an actual tent from my comforter, inside stacked with books, soda and a bologna sandwich. I cried, but I was safe. My blanket pitched over me, protecting my body, heart and thoughts. Or so I wanted to believe. At least until the next time we went shopping.