Dressed Down

I was standing in my laundry room just minutes ago, hanging up clothes and thinking about... stuff. Nothing specific. Just chasing rabbits through my brain.

Thoughts were coming at me from all over the place, like a hundred balls simultaneously fired onto a racquetball court. You know how it is... you start thinking one thing while performing some mindless task, and all of a sudden another deeply buried thought hits you and you wonder, "HEY! Where did *that* come from?"

While I was folding my daughter's pants, the fishing rod that is my brain reeled in a memory from childhood. I recalled standing in my grandparents' den in Tennessee. My Aunt Sharon was showing me and my mom a piece of smocking that she was making. Her plan, she explained, was to make a dress for me, incorporating this smocked piece into the chest area. The fabric she was using for the body of the dress was a dark black and red plaid.

I was in love with the dress, even though it technically was not yet a dress. It was going to be so very pretty. *I* was going to be so very pretty.

Since I was an overweight child, I hardly ever got to wear what the skinny girls were wearing. I remember when designer jeans were all the rage. My Calvins had pleated fronts like "mom jeans", and the label was hidden under the belt I had to wear with them. Everyone else had Calvins with pockets, and their labels were sewn onto those pockets. Forget the Chic and Jordache and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. My fat butt wouldn't fit into those.

I was in a singing group when I was in 6th grade. Of course we had to have matching outfits. The director found the same skirt in everyone's size but mine. All the other girls had straight navy blue wool skirts. Mine was pleated like a lampshade.

Man, I hated being a fat kid.

MAN, I hate being a fat adult.

But I was writing about a dress...

This smocked dress was going to be so cool. It was supposed to be ready at Christmastime, and I could not wait. I had a friend at church who wore smocked dresses, and they were lovely. She was a skinny girl, so you can imagine my excitement at being able to wear something just like her!

Christmas came and went. I didn't get the dress. To this day I don't know what happened to it. I never saw it completed. I guess my aunt didn't finish it. She has sons, so I'm pretty sure she didn't decide to keep it after toiling over it for a long time (unless there's something I don't know...)

As I stood there in my laundry room remembering my extreme sadness about the dress I never wore, it occurred to me that I still abhor being disappointed. I have come to a place in my life where I block excitement, because I don't want to be let me down. I'm guarded. Too guarded. I guess my hopes have been dashed one too many times, and I've grown a thick shell to deflect hurt feelings. Sucks to be me.

As a consequence, I don't let people inside my shell. You see, I like people who follow through. I don't like it when someone makes me a promise and then doesn't make good on it. Empty promises nag at me like something I know I need to do but can't recall.

If I tell someone I'm going to do something, I make it my ambition to get it done. I do not want to be that person that lets someone down. I don't want to be the person that drops the ball and causes someone else to hurt. I will always be the person who follows through, or tries REALLY hard to do so.

I desire those same attributes in friends, but it seems that there aren't many people left like that. I am a good friend. I know I am. I just wish I could find else someone like me. I could use a few great friends.