That dress.

I was in one of those discount stores. I'm not sure what possessed me to try it on--maybe the unbelievable price. I slipped into it in the communal dressing room, and I suddenly felt unbelievably sexy--like someone else. It was black, fitted, and short, but it was still classy. It hugged in all the right places and hid the ones I was most uncomfortable with. I bought it because I'm a dreamer and a romantic, and how often does a dress fit that perfectly? I had this notion that the new man in my life would take me out to a fancy dinner in the City, and I'd need to look the part. It turns out that never happened--in any of the four-ish years I saw him. He rarely took me out at all. The tags stayed on the dress, and the mere $30 I spent on it seemed like an utter waste on a foolish pipe dream. How did I believe I deserved that?

It was Friday afternoon, and I was packing for a weekend away with my new man--a man so different from the other. It was the weekend of my dreams: massages, Carmel, a drive along the coast, and a fancy dinner. I was daydreaming, thinking this weekend can't possibly live up to my expectations for it, when I pulled "that dress" out of the closet. I slipped it on to see if it would work, and it felt perfect. Perfect. I was going to get to wear that dress! As I laid it across my weekend bag, I felt a little flutter in my stomach. Are we sure this is my life?

We were driving down the coast, with the top down, in his car, marveling at the wonder of it all. Over and over the views were declared, "unreal/amazing/beautiful." I was lost in the views, and in the moment of being with this man who is making my dreams come true. For a moment, though, I smirked. I smirked not because I was overcome with love or the moment or the actualization of this perfect day, but because that dress was in the trunk, and, in a few short hours, I'd be walking into the restaurant on the arm of the man I love in that dress.

How did I not know I deserved this?