THE YELLOW DRESS How Often Do We Choose The Safer Path?
One day, several years ago, when my mother and I decided to go shopping for clothes together, we stopped at a small, out-of-the-way store which was having a sale. Being the smart and thrifty shopper she had always been, my mother started scouting for the best deals, practical clothes in neutral colors which would “go with everything”, and which were her usual style. As she looked at some dark-color wool pants, I started casually looking through some dresses. Then I noticed, peaking through the long line of matronly-looking dresses in drab colors, a striking yellow dress with small red flower patterns. I showed it to my mother more as a joke than anything, not really thinking she would ever want to try it on. To my surprise, something in that dress made her wonder how she would look in it, and she decided to put it on. It was as if the vital woman she had once been were finally allowed to come out from the deep recesses of her soul to see the light of day, after a long number of years. She looked lovely! The dress clung to her, just enough; it had a low-cut waist, which accentuated her body; and the color and pattern were vivid, but not exagerate. I started raving about it, and told her she should get it. I knew she wanted to; she liked the way it looked on her. She paraded around, back and forth, looking at herself in the mirror from all angles, carefully studying herself, just like a teenager choosing a prom dress. For one fleeting moment, I had a glimpse of the woman she had been when she was younger. She had a flustered, rosy expression on her face, and she looked so full of life and hopes and dreams again... But the novelty started to wear off. The old fears and prejudices took the opportunity to settle back in, and she automatically responded to them: “It’s not me.” “How can you say it’s not you? You look wonderful in it! And what does that mean, anyway, ‘it’s not me’? Why do you have to have such a limited, narrow idea of who you are? Why do you have to paint such an unimaginative picture of yourself in your mind, and then live by it as if you were following a brain-washing cult?” “Well, I just know that if I buy this dress I will never wear it. It doesn’t feel comfortable. It makes me feel self-conscious. It seems like I’m this old woman who doesn’t have any sense of what’s appropriate for her age, and is still trying to call attention to herself.” “What’s wrong with a little attention? And who ever decided what anybody should be wearing at any age, anyway? You know you look wonderful; you know you do. There is nothing wrong with you dressing like you’re feeling good about yourself for a change.” She looked at herself again and again.
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“I don’t have the money for something so superfluous as this dress. Where can I wear it? I don’t go out much, and I need work clothes, something I can wear at school. I can’t wear this dress to school.” “Maybe you don’t go out much because all you have in your closet are work clothes. If you had this nice dress, maybe you’d feel like going out.” “What’s the price on this thing? Oh, my goodness, that’s too much. I can’t afford this dress.” “I’ll buy it for you! It’s not that expensive”. “Maybe for you, who doesn’t have to worry about money. If you want to buy me clothes, let me choose something I can really use.” “I offered to buy you this dress, not any other piece of clothing”. She sulked. And looked at herself some more. “I would have to make some changes. The dress is too short. I would have to lower the hem. “All right, mom.” “And did you notice how transparent this thing is? I’d have to wear it with a slip.” “Fine”. “You know what? I just noticed how high these side slits are cut! I can’t go around like that. My slip would show, anyway. I’d have to sew these slits shut.” “Anything else you believe you need to change on this dress?”, I exasperated. And she went on and on, tearing the dress apart, piece by piece. I fought bravely for that yellow dress. It felt as if I were fighting not only for her sake, but for my own. I was pushing away all my own fears and prejudices, the same ones she had passed on to me, which had been passed on to her, and on and on, from generation to generation, for hundreds of years. I was fighting the very same thoughts in her which I could already feel creeping inside myself, spreading and taking over like weeds. The same thoughts which were making me every day more and more like my mother. I was fighting for the wild woman in me. I was fighting for freedom. But it was impossible to take on such ingrained conditioning. I finally gave up, placing the yellow dress back on the hanger, and my mother and I left the store with a no-nonsense pair of dark brown woolen slacks. To this day I think about that incident. I can still picture my mother’s expression when, even if for just one brief moment, she felt she could expand the role she had assigned herself in this world. I wonder how often many of us are faced with such decisions, and end up by choosing the safer path, as she did. It was too late for her. I wonder if it is also too late for me. Above all, I wonder how many yellow dresses are left hanging, waiting for braver souls.