Crying in the Lord and Taylor Dressing Room

“Where are you?” 

The texts were coming fast and furious from rather attractive husband.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was trapped in the Lord & Taylor dressing room.

Crying.

I hate to shop. And I certainly hate to shop for perhaps the biggest moment of my life (sans legs spread and head crowning).

I was all set for the Listen To Your Mother show. My piece is good. My delivery smooth. My colleagues? Unfrigginbelievable. Producers Varda and Amy, Holly, and my new tequila-swirling best friend Betsy, have the talent and chutzpah to bring LTYM to NYC, yet still make a small town girl like me feel right at home.

But then we starting talking wardrobe, and it went downhill fast.

The vernacular flying around rehearsal was intimidating: sheath dress; red suede pants; palazzo pants. Then horror of all horrors: Spanx.

Not good.

“Nothing black on top.” 

So I went to where the grown ups shop. Lord & Taylor. Fancy, eh? And I wandered the racks, looking at the people looking at the clothes.

Too old, too young, too Nana-country-club-esque. I wouldn’t wear any of this anywhere, let alone to a NYC performance, starring, um, me.

So I grabbed what I could in a variety of sizes: 6 – 14. Because I was once a 6, and well, now I’m not.

My one rule about trying on clothes is I take off all my clothes once: that’s it. I try on and I leave. There’s no return trip with other options. Once the street clothes are back on, this girl is done. Outta there.

Which doesn’t work so well when you’re shopping for the biggest day of your life. So when my rather attractive husband, Kid3 and Boy happened on this sobbing mom, they sprang into action.

It was like Project Runway, except older, wider, wiser. And the designers, fresh from the field, were wearing lacrosse cleats.

And low and behold, I got a top. And a jacket. And spent a whole lotta money that would have never have happened had I been alone. And I had a great pair of coral slacks (for you Trace, just for you) that would match amazingly perfect.

Not country club Connecticut perfect, but chic and upper West Side perfect.

So this non-shopper shopper trotted her happy little self to dinner with friends and announced, she had acquired an outfit for the big day! Only needed a bra and shoes, but otherwise done! Funky top, hip little jacket, and coral linen pants.

The horror was palpable. The women’s eyes bulged and darted around the table. Forks dropped. No one would look at me.

After some uncomfortable coughing and small talk, one could take it no longer:

“DO NOT, I REPEAT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES PUT ANYTHING ORANGE ON YOUR ASS! DO YOU HEAR ME?? DON’T DO IT, I’m serious about this trust me you would kill me for not telling you. Your bottom half will be as large as a semi on camera.”

Enough! I got it loud and clear. No orange. Okay!

When leaving, she grabbed me by the shirt with desperation in her eyes:

“I mean it,” she menaced. “Do not do this. You are not good at shopping. You know this. I know this. Do not underestimate what I am trying to tell you: TRACTOR TRAILER.”

She got off her tiptoes and soothed my shirt, and kissed me goodbye.

“And get yourself to Payless for some cute little open toe shoes? Cute, cute, cute. And get a pedi too. I’ll come with you. It’ll be fun.”