It is spring
…and spring is for dresses.
Summer is also for dresses (as are fall and winter if you really want to be technical about it) but dresses know they must abide by a strict seasonal code. For example, if a bus whooshes by you and you find yourself making valiant overtures to preserve the discretion of your undergarments, well, you’re wearing a summer dress. Spring dresses stay put, and rather crisply. Just about like this one, but without all the circuitous plot and inanity.
Jon Hamm can stay. And all the drinking and hats.
Spring is for linen, cotton, and either florals or the kind of pinks and greens you can’t really get away with any other time of year. Sensible, work appropriate dresses– maybe with cap sleeves and a kick pleat.
The problem is not finding the dresses.The internet is my oyster, and full to the brim of exactly the type of dresses the season requires. Plus, at this point I can, with a frightening level of accuracy, detmine fabric content and year of origin given naught but a pixelated, poorly lit photo. All while sleeping.
Ample supply meets ample demand. The problem is this:
It is cold and deplorable. And today, I saw lightning and rain falling from more than one direction. This is, in my memory, the strangest, coldest, wettest spring in memory. Sure, dresses are adorable under big coats (it always seems, in my experience, like I’m walking around with an unbearably wonderful secret), but it seems a little disrespectful of ambient wretchedness to showboat around in pastels.
So meet the perfect dress for our monochromatic spring:
1960s-to-die-for-linen. Floral, but deferentially so. A slim skirt and nipped-in waist keep frump far at bay, but the sleeves let the world know that you won’t be tolerating any funny business today, especially from you two over there. It could use a pair of these to keep things on edge, but they’re useful for elevating one out of rain puddles anyway.
I can’t WAIT to see those little waist pleats in person either– they’re so crisp and flattering and always make me feel like some kind of thoughtfully wrapped present. Or a fancy table napkin. Or maybe a tasteful valence. All quite acceptable, as some of us generally strive to wear at least one of the three to work on a gloomy Tuesday.
<1950s floral day dress. Don’t ask how I know this would pass the bus test. I just know.
Pink and white op art sheath dress. Pair it with 6 pounds of plastic accessories, and it launches you into space.
Blue and lime silk 1960s sheath dress. I may very well still buy this. Note the belt and POCKETS.
1950s embroidered cocktail dress of champions. Well played, orangey bow.
And our winner. May she find herself at home in my closet and make do with the shoes I own already.>