The Discount Life: Slit Worthy

Of course the skirt was not hard to find. This is America. Evidence of the success of Baywatch demonstrates that we, as a nation, value ass and legs. There was a plethora of slitted skirt options on floors one, two and three of Bloomingdale’s. Level of taste was more the question. Did I want to look reality tv whorish or just you’re regular, run of the mill European sexy? I tried on both. But let’s get serious – you can’t sit down in realtiy tv whorish skirts. Britnety Spears tried it, and we all remember how that turned out. So after several minutes spent spinning my bum back and forth in front of the three way mirror, I satisfied goal number nine and bought an above the knee pencil skirt with a slit just high enough to say sexy librarian seeks professional with a brain, a heart and a personality – but I’m not coming home with you tonight.


“So have you worn it yet?” Mel asked. It was a Thursday night. A night in weeks past, I would have been spending with Christian but now spent at orchestra practice and then watching the Thursday night line up with a bowl of vanilla ice cream that started with just one scoop but inevitably ended up the carrier for a triple scoop special. This had to stop or the slitted skirt was going to be less a positive attraction and more freak show attraction.

“No. Not yet. I’m looking for a reason. I don’t have to have one every time but for the first time, the occasion has to be slit worthy.”

“Mmm, a slit worthy soiree. Maybe we should throw you one? A celebration of your new life…in a slitted skirt.”

“No. Not like that. I’ll find the right time. Besides, you’re the one we’ll be throwing things for in the next few months.” Mel and Jack were due to be married on June 12th. As the maid of honor, it was my job to through the string of parties that would soon be attached to their association: bridal shower, bachelorette party, pre-wedding gathering. I was finally looking forward to what, for so long, had seemed a constant reminder that someone else had and I had not. But this Chloe: the one with the running and the violin and the slitted skirt, felt enormous satisfaction in watching two of her favorite people plan their all the way life together.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said. In truth, I had already spoken to the other women in our group and set the parties for April and May respectively but I pretended to Mel as if nothing had been established.

“I’ll have to get on that,” I said. Mel didn’t respond but instead giggled nervously and changed the subject.

“So, how’s orchestra been going?”

“It’s great actually. We’re practicing some Verdi & Vivaldi. I’ve met quite a lot of new people.” I told her about the conductor, a man named Herbert who was white haired, petite and stood on his platform like a Yoda to his Jetti. And middle aged Maury, a cellist who’s wife recently left him for an older man who also happened to be their financial advisor and close friend; Maury, despite his loss, kept a happy disposition and laughed off his story, saying things like Can you blame her? He still has all his hair. “And then there’s Eloise,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“Eloise is the woman I hope to be someday.” Twice my age and height, it was impossible that I would ever be as tall and willowy as her, but Eloise radiated vivacity and serenity. She was married, with two children and had been playing the violin for nearly three decades. She’d played briefly for THE Philadelphia Orchestra in her twenties but when I asked her why she’d stopped she said, “that’s a long story but it’s just like that musical says When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. “The thing about Eloise is that she seems perfect but not like Judy. She’s not showy about it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. More real?”

“I guess they’re both real but I get the feeling that Eloise has worked through some things to achieve her life. I can’t explain it but I hope I can be like her.”

“Is she a runner?”

“Not that I know of but she’s enviably thin.”

“Of course. Anybody who is thin is enviably thin. That’s the sad part about being a woman…almost nothing is too thin, even when you know it should be. Maybe I should run a marathon before the wedding. If I don’t eat anything, I can be a waif by June.” There was humor in her tone but I could tell that, as is so often the case, there was a spot of truth in that triste hope. “I’m just kidding Chloe. Don’t get scared.”

“I know. I wasn’t really worried.”

“Speaking of running, when is your Marathon?” Too soon, I wanted to say. There was a slim chance in heaven that I’d really finish.

“End of April,” I said. “I’m terrified. And its only a week after the orchestra’s big spring performance. High stress week.”

“How far have you gone so far?”

“10 miles. That’s it. And its agonizing by the end of mile 9. I don’t know how I’ll get through 26 miles.”

“Well its only February. That’s almost three months away.” Three months to prove that some goals are better left to others perhaps. “Just don’t focus on it yet. Think of all the fun stuff first. My parties, Andrew’s Birthday weekend, Valentine’s…” and she stopped herself. Valentine’s Day: the 24 hour conundrum. For many couples, Stanley and I included, Valentine’s Day was a non-issue. A fabricated holiday made by greeting card companies for a reason to get you out and spending money at the risk of looking like a huge schmuck if you don’t. Despite the cynicism, Stanley always did come home with a card. It’s funny how easily something can be blown off when it’s a given: I don’t have to go out on a Friday night because at home there’s someone waiting. Even in not having a plan, the existence of said someone, by rights, means you have a plan. Valentine’s Day is much the same. When you know there will be a card, the holiday is easy to toss off. But when you don’t know there will be a card it is a 24 hour branding that reads: Don’t judge me, I’m single, and is simply something to get through.

“You can say Valentine’s Day Mel. I won’t fall apart.”

“Maybe you’ll have a hot date for it.”

“Maybe…”

“Well that’s days away anyway. First you have to come to my first dress fitting with me. It’s next week.” Mel had found the dress with myself, her mother and Jack’s sister a month after their engagement. It was beautiful, of course, but in the salon had been four sizes too big for Mel and had had to be pinned closed.

“Done. I’ll be there.”

“You should wear your slitted skirt. I think it’s a slit worthy occasion. And there will be champagne” she lifted her tone as if her voice alone could entice me.

“Done. Done and done. “

“And Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re a lot more like Eloise than you think.” At that I had to smile. Quietly I marveled at the strength that could be drawn from the support of true friendship.


“The pencil skirt must’ve been designed by the French, “ I said as we walked into the bridal salon.

“Sexy but not overt. I agree – tres French,” Mel said. The bridal salon was located in a shopping center designed to look like an Italian Piazza. The salon itself was draped in shades of pink, recalling to mind the infamous move line My colors are blush and bashful. I said it out loud with a deeply put on drawl.

“You’re colors are pink and pink,” Mel said back.

“Steel Magnolias!” the woman behind the counter exclaimed in that way that women do where their voices go up three octaves and they absolutely must put their palms together as if to clap but not. The overall message of the expletive is: I know that too. We’re one. United by Julia…again. “I love that movie.” She was southern, with a dripping lilt that lasted for seconds. Her name tag said Jaime-Lynn. “I’m from Louisiana you know.”

Mel glanced at me questioningly and with judgment written all over her face. “Well we’re from here and we’d like to try on my wedding dress,” she said with an extra ounce of enthusiasm. She may have been making fun of Jamie-Lynn but Mel’s excitement was palpable.

“Well that is far more important then my jibber jabber. Come on over to the fitting rooms. Let’s get you set up. Your name?” She walked away in a hurry, with a sachet that suggested she’d spent her life in high heels and a country club with Daddy. Her energy, like thinness, was enviable and she had Mel in her dress in no time.

The dress was as all wedding dresses were meant to be- a representation of the woman who wore it at her finest. It was an off the shoulder duchess satin that criss-crossed over the bust and rouched down the waistline. The skirt was fitted through the thigh and flared ever so slightly in sheets of organza and lace from the dropped waist. Watching Mel twirl in it made my heart ache. Not in sadness but in the knowledge that this was something special. A moment of pure joy: a rarity in life. I felt lucky to be its witness.

“Well, it still needs to be hemmed but was this slit worthy?”Mel asked.   I laughed.

“Absolutely! But it would’ve been worthy no matter what I wore.” Mel smiled at me with such tenderness I thought I might cry. But the softness was broken by the sound of robust southern voice saying “Picture, Picture!”. Jaime-Lynn came brandishing a giant camera like a magic wand. Glinda the Good, here to make sure we found our way home to Kanasas. She herded Mel and I together and we stood, arm and arm, champagne flutes to the air and smiled our biggest smiles. But she didn’t take the picture. Frozen, I glanced at Mel with an expression that said, “What the….”

“Hold on," she said,"just waiting for it." Waiting for what? Unless a team of makeup and hair artists came through we weren’t getting any prettier. Seconds passed.

“Uh, Jamie-Lynn, we’re not getting any younger here…” Mel said.

“Just hush,” she peeked her head out from around the camera. “I’m waiting for it.”

“For what?” I said pointedly.

“The magic.” I lifted my eyebrows and turned to Mel. The expression on her face said What. In. the. World. She’s crazy and we both burst out laughing. I heard the camera snap in the middle of our outburst and we both looked at Jamie-Lynn. She snapped again.

We left the shop with two black and white photos: portraits of two friends laughing at the camera in a wedding dress and pencil skirt. It was beautiful the way the still frame captured our veracity, no words attached. Jamie-Lynn was right.  She’d found magic.

“I feel kind of bad for making so much fun of her in my head,” Mel said. “She kind of knew what she was doing.” We were walking across the center’s courtyard , our coats draped over our arms in a rare pre-spring evening; the warmth sure to disappear in this weekend’s called for snow.

“She was a character though. You can’t blame us,” I said, my eye on the restaurant in front of us. I was starving.

“No, I know. Its just…” Mel was cut off.

“Chloe?” The voice was familiar. I was nervous before I even turned around but I did and there was Peter Stone.

“I thought that was you,” he said walking over to us from the restaurant’s front doors.

“Hi Peter,” I offered my hand and he took it. A firm hand shake, then the familiar gesture of running his hands up the back of his neck and tousling his hair. For a second I wished that he were Christian but the moment passed when he said, “I’ve been meaning to call you. But I’ve been kind of busy buying new shirts.” I smiled.

“You should’ve only needed one, “ I said. “Don’t try to make me feel too guilty.”

“Well you inspired me to get a new wardrobe.” I glanced at my pencil skirt and thought, if you only knew I was thinking the same thing. Mel shifted and cleared her throat just as Peter asked “So everything okay at the apartment?” he stopped nervously and turned to her. “I’m sorry. Peter Stone. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand to her and she accepted saying “Mel. Chloe’s best friend who she doesn’t think needs to be introduced.” I shot her a look of embarrassment and annoyance.

“Sorry about that. Mel, Peter. Peter, Mel. And the apartment is fine. Thanks for asking. No robber’s yet.”

“Good. Good. Well I was on my way to something but uh….” he paused, “we’ll keep in touch.” Keeping in touch is man code for when and if I feel like it, I will but maybe not, so don’t get excited. I wanted to roll my eyes but Christian’s voice stopped me. You never know when someone is being sincere and a roll of the eyes is not a sign of strength but a shut down. I hated that his voice was a guide of reason for me.

“We’ll see,” I said. He turned to walk away and then stopped himself. A half turn back he said, “You look good,” directing his hand in an up and down motion that covered my body from head to toe. Then he smiled and walked away.

I wanted to call Andrew and thank him immediately for encouraging me to put’ buy a skirt with a slit in it’ on the goal’s list. Instead I turned to Mel and said, “Thanks for convincing me to wear my slitted skirt.”

She laughed. “No problem. And he’s cute. Now let’s eat!” We walked into the restaurant all bubbly and teenager like. It’s true what they say about living life to the fullest. As it turns out, you never know when a moment might just turn out to be slit worthy.