Little Black Dress

Men are such visual creatures. This isn’t front page news, I know, but ever since I posted the picture of me in my latest  ‘little black dress,’ I’ve been getting an increase in mail. This reminds me of the bull ring when the matador shakes his red cape. Men love red, I know, but the little black dress really packs a punch, doesn’t it? They take a second look, every time. A woman probably possesses one or two in her closet, and we have to keep changing them due to fashion trends, and to accommodate fluctuating weight loss or gain. I hate to throw out any of my little black dresses. Each one of them has a story.

There is one LBD that I’ll never get rid of. I’ve only worn it once, and that was for my Mother’s funeral. This color has been a symbol of grieving for generations. I have never felt the urge to wear it after that sorrowful day. Whenever I look at it, I remember the day that we buried her. I remember reading a eulogy that I painstakingly wrote, and how sweet my little niece looked in the second row wearing a fisherman’s knit sweater that my Mother knitted. I shopped for that dress the day after my Mother passed. I knew I would have to stand up in front of a crowded parish and give this speech in honor and I had to wear proper attire. Rituals are there for a reason, especially in occasions such as this. It gives us focus and a purpose. I had a duty and my Mother would be mortified if I showed up wearing something unsuitable. Besides, my Mom and I used to love shopping together. I was sure I felt her spirit with me that day searching the racks for something she’d approve.


I have a LBD that I bought when my niece and I spent a day in the big city. We had a glorious afternoon riding the Seabus, browsing Granville Island, and touching all the wares on display by local artists. On our way to the car, she spotted this hot little green number displayed in a designer’s shop window.

“Let’s see you in that one, Lisa,” I encouraged her.

While I waited for her to slip into it, I went through a few sale racks and found my little black number—that just happened to be marked down from $150.00 to a mere $40.00. I tried it on and, although snug, I figured a loss of five pounds would make this a hit for the season; I’d look fabulous. I bought it. That dress has never fit me right and I’ve never worn it. It sits neglected behind my Mother’s funeral dress. My Father’s words come to me on this one: ‘What good is a deal if you never use it?’


The LBD that I’m wearing on the dating site was an impulse purchase a month ago. I tried it on and knew instantly that it was designed for me. It required zero weight loss. It was sexy, and without looking like I’m trying too hard. Elegant sexy—that’s the look for me. I have pictures where I am wearing dresses, but they are light and breezy, and very different from their sleeker cousin—the LBD. Mere hours after I posted it, I received the beginning barrage of mail.

A man who has been tentatively mailing me and too shy to put his own picture up, suddenly wrote to say he loves my dress and look—there’s his photo! I’ve had men from 22 years of age right up to 65 respond, some just say, ‘You look gorgeous in that dress.’

So ladies, forget about posting that pic of you at the top of the mountain in your shorts and tank. I know we look our best there, really, with a sun kissed glow on our faces—our eyes dancing with delight. You know the picture we all have holding our newborn? When we are champions? My eldest brother said to me, when he viewed it, “Look at that goofy smile on your face!”  Those pictures are really our best, and we are so delighted with life in that brief, snapshot moment.

But men prefer the LBD. Trust me on this one.



Little Black Dress © 2011 Adrienne S Moody. Read the latest Adrienne outdoor adventure and romantic exploit on Now.readthisplease.

3 Responses to “Little Black Dress”
  1. Gaboo says:

    Nice insight to the psyche, A. Why don’t you model it ;)

    This tale reminds me of girl I knew, ya ya ya, I was fresh out of high school and sidelining in a factory painting large chunks of metal that flew past on a conveyor belt. Research. It was a loud and hazardous place with a loud and hazardous crew. Amazingly, I did well and pulled some clout with my dexterity on paint gun. (Binks Airless). I became a rising star with management and my exceeding quota—and with the crew and my ability to party all night long. When I did well, my crew did well. These were golden times.

    So the company dinner comes round in the festive season and everybody is bringing a girlfriend, or a wife, or cousin. I cannot. My consort at the time was in lock up on the weekends, and even if she was out, three drinks and she’d be in a brawl. I was a clumsy lad and quite over matched.

    Then, an idea pinged. During high school, I had been inadvertently adopted as the mascot to the girls’ volleyball team. It was an age when moody and innocuous was in. There were no real perks to the job, but I made some good friends and four of Senior High’s finest would show up at Ma’s house weekday mornings to drag me out and off to class, one with the lunch. Four babysitters, you might say. Surely one of these fine upstanding Cinderella’s would attend?

    I called Sherry. Demure brunette with perky lips that curled in a sexy sneer. She was also semi-detached—from the planet—and sure to go along as a fun ride on a ‘formal’ date. I just had to clear it with her thirty five-year-old boyfriend and see if I could borrow his Trans-Am.

    I cleared, but I had to borrow Ma’s car. I got all duded up then drove to Sherry’s. Screech. Ran up to the door and BAM. Wow. There she was, all legs, hair, lips, and eyes in The Little Black Dress. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to run away with her, have kids, and get married.

    Big Bossman on visit from head office chose the doo at the local entertainment center—upstairs at the hotel bar. All were in attendance and looking fine—gowns, suits, ties, and hair. Shiny shoes and no boots. I whisked Sherry up stairs and past a few buddies, she was playing it perfect, gracious, smiles, totally pro.

    Got her to the table and took her jacket, pulled out the chair and the whole room went slow mo. She was right off the pages of Vogue and I was the luckiest dawg alive, in that room, in that town. Sherry was stellar, beaming, regaling all with charming anecdotes and wit, the consummate actress. Bossman became possessed.

    He made his move after the third song on a lame band set, drawling, “Would you mind terribly, if I asked your date for a dance.” Almost immediately I went into Gollum-mode hissing, “no, my precious,” but couth prevailed. I asked Sherry, “Is that OK with you?”

    “Sure,” and her ruby lips parted and blew, eyes dancing in mirror ball mesmer-twinklies. They twirled the floor for three dances, Old Slick Gel Head and my nubile nineteen-year-old goddess date. Oh, well. She had fun and got to dazzle.

    Little Black Dress, like for sure. Like we ever had a chance. g

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