The Dress

I was always very mature for my age. I was among the few adolescents who knew that there is no ’a’ in definitely. I was able to carry on an interesting conversation about Nietzsche’s presentation of master-morality or Dr. Chester Stock's musings on the Smiledon Californicus#. I contributed to discussions led over half drank sour martinis and Cuban cigars. From the time my stubby legs were too short to reach the floor, I was already at the guest table - the edge of the guest table, but the guest table nonetheless - participating in the adult merriment, desperately trying to put in my tuppence worth. Although I rarely understood what was being said, I mimicked facial expressions and physical gestures of those next to me to look involved. I wanted to contribute something and these immense struggles to conform often left me wondering: why was everyone disregarding my enthusiastic input?

In my mind, however, being an adult was splendid. I enjoyed surrounding myself with adults and often attended social gatherings along with my parents just to be in the company of intellectuals. I begged my mother to let me wear one of her fancy dresses, but her answer was usually: “when it doesn‘t look ridiculous on you”. At the party I stood with my father, arm extended far above my head holding tightly to his hand, I silently watched them mingle. I yearned to be those brooding and independent creatures, standing six feet tall in fancy attire, talking about sports or politics to their aquaintances. Older ladies passed by me, smiling and commenting to their lady friends on my adorable dimples. I talked to them and, lo and behold, they talked to me - in condescending tone; to them I was nothing but a newborn without a pacifier. Despite their innate treachery, I couldn’t help but notice their physical appearance - their tall and graceful silhouettes dressed in silky black dresses, their bare backs arched like a bow. I instantly grew envious. Was it possible that one day I would be like...