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I have a house dress.
There. I said it.
It’s kind of ugly. It’s fairly shapeless. It’s definitely boring. I don’t remember when I bought it or where I thought I’d wear it. The label says Neiman Marcus. Go figure.
Did I know it would end up being worn only at home? Does anyone ever buy a dress with that in mind? Or do certain pieces of clothing just end up benched, like basketball players who’ve lost all hope of getting into a game?
I’ve had my — oh, I’ll just say it — HOUSE DRESS — forever. My first memory of wearing it publicly was when I walked the kids to school one day — yes — I had it when my now-24-year-old twins were in third grade — and that’s not because I take good care of my clothes — it’s because it’s made of some kind of indestructible polyester. Or at least I assume so. It’s been washed so many times, the fabric label has faded to blank.
I’d thrown a cashmere cardigan over it and to my shock, a fellow mother asked how I managed to look so put together at that hour.
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Well… I mean… I’m wearing sweats with Cheerios stuck to them, so…” she said with a shrug and I regretted pressing her. I still haven’t learned to simply accept a damned compliment.
My housedress is easy — not cool easy — pathetic easy — the doormat of my wardrobe. It doesn’t matter if I’ve lost or gained five pounds — it fits the same and doesn’t judge. It loves me even when I treat it like crap — which is pretty much always. I’ve spilled coffee on it while staring at Wordle, barely bothering to blot it with a napkin, have splattered its lap with tomato soup, and splashed its bosom with cranberry juice while shaking a batch of cosmo’s. It’s like I’m actively trying to destroy it. And yet it always pops out of the washing machine clean and ready for action — put me in coach!
Save for the picture above, I never hang it. I don’t even fold it. I roll it into a sack-like shape and shove it into my bottom drawer — like embarrassing porn or an incriminating college journal. And yet. It springs out of the drawer without so much as an admonishing wrinkle.
Housey, as I sometimes call it (not proud of that) is my Backstreet Girl. If you don’t know that Rolling Stones song, check it out — I hate myself for liking it, because it’s misogynistic, classist and downright mean. But with all that, it manages to be incredibly cool and beautiful-sounding — as pretty as Keith Richards’ voice will ever be. It’s actually quite a feat — how do you sing “Don’t want you out in my world. Just you be my backstreet girl” and make it sound sweet?
Hmm. Keith’s backstreet girl is smoking a Marlboro, smudgy black eyeliner peeking through her fuck-you bangs, while mine wears a mock-turtleneck with a modest A-line cut.
Fine. On the cool scale, my housedress is a loser.
On any scale, my housedress is a loser.
But it’s my loser.
After I peel off jeans and boots, or at the end of a meeting-filled day in a form-fitting dress and tights — when I want something I can’t feel on my body — my backstreet housey is so fucking there.
I’ve slipped into it after office days that ended at midnight, hugging it close as I sat on the sofa watching reruns of (ironically) The Office, as my husband snored softly in the bed I was way too wired to tuck myself into.
I’ve hugged it to me on blissful Sundays when I’ve had no place to be, and, with a many a sigh on Saturday nights when I wished we had exciting plans.
I’ve dolloped more cookie dough onto more baking sheets than I can remember, while enveloped in its black semi-stretchy, non-judgmental fabric.
I’ve sung along to “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” as I sauteed onions, belting out “you just kinda wasted my precious time” with what I, alone, consider a perfect Dylan-esque twang.
I’ve shrugged a coat over it, stamping to the market for the milk I can’t drink my coffee without, cursing myself for not realizing we were low the night before.
I went more days in it, sans shower, than I should admit, during the early weeks of the pandemic, when there seemed no reason to get clean.
Ditto, each of the times I’ve had covid.
It was the first thing I reached for after the “quick catch up” zoom that caught me up on the fact that after 26 years, I no longer had a job. Numbly, I unbuttoned my tan linen work dress and pulled my housedress over my head as I played back the conversation that I wouldn’t be able to process for weeks.
I put it on each time I got home from a long day in New Jersey, where my mother sat way too quietly for way too long during a hospice that I wished would end, until it did, leaving me longing for more of her quiet grace.
After the funeral, I think I wore it for a month.
I’ve danced with my kids to Diana Ross’s Upside Down and Aretha’s Chain of Fools in my housedress while my husband deejayed.
It falls from my shoulders without touching my body at all — so it’s like wearing nothing without revealing a thing.
On bad days, I’ve put it on after arguing with my husband, yelling so loudly, I’ve worried what the neighbors might think. It’s the perfect thing to wear when reflection is necessary — there’s no waistband to distract me as I think about what I said. No belt to fidget with as I admit I was an ass. No seams to straighten as I say I’m sorry.
This morning, I sat in our window seat, watching tiny snowflakes float down- a sight that would have been more beautiful had it not been obscured by the scaffolding and netting that seem to be the price one has to pay for living in the best city in the world.
This is the end of a long, lovely, lazy winter break. One where, for the first time in ages, I didn’t work. And didn’t obsess about not working. I ate what I felt like, drank as often as I wanted (which was quite) and slept late.
I said yes to all invitations. Even the ones that made me feel shy.
I invited people over and didn’t freak out about things being perfect.
I went to the movies.
And out to dinner.
And always, always, came home and put my housedress on.
This morning, I took it off and put (shoved) it away, then pulled on a pair of pants that mean business and a silky button down shirt.
I wrote to my contacts and said to give me a shout with writing assignments. And then winced, because I’m not sure what makes me more angsty — getting an assignment or not getting one.
My housedress will be there either way.
If I could give it advice, I’d tell it to stop being such a tool.
But it wouldn’t listen. It’s pathetic that way.
And that’s why I love it.
It wants nothing and gives everything.
And it’s never, ever not been there, unless it’s in the laundry bag, splattered with grapefruit juice. Even then, I’m not above fishing it out and pulling it over my head when I really need it.
Which is more and more often lately.
Life is messy.
The world is scary.
And comfort is hard to come by.
