My Big Fat Yellow Mistake

If any of you have joyous experiences when shopping for a winter

formal dress with your high school daughter, don’t tell me about it.

I dread this rite-of-passage every year. Some years go more smooth

than others, but on the whole I rank shopping for a special-occasion

dress right up there with getting a root canal.

I usually try to do some recognizance work before the actual

shopping event. I like having a game plan so hysteria doesn’t set in

after the first two hours. Adding a lunch or dinner is another

tension breaker. Whatever you do, flying by the seat of your pants is

the worst dynamic you can create. And it’s exactly what we did this

week.

Sending your daughter out to shop en masse with her friends is a

bad tactic. I like the friends, but I hate the results. Between three

girls, you can pretty much bet that collectively they know who bought

which dress in every store. Amazing.

After my experience, I can tell you what Ashley, Jordan, Kirsten,

Brittany and Carolyn are wearing. If you have time, I’ll tell you

about their accessories and shoes. Of course, there is an unwritten

rule that it is fatal to have any fashion crossover. Gets a little

tough when you’ve waited until two weeks before the event to do your

power shopping.

As I write this on Wednesday night, Annie and I have scoured

Fashion Island and South Coast Plaza. We closed down Macy’s before we

headed home. It was heartening to see other stunned parents rummaging

through the forest of rayon and sequins. We even encountered a dad

who says he buys his daughter’s dress every year. And he smiled when

he said it. Joe, you da man.

I’m impressed. I can only imagine what would happen if I sent Ben

and Annie out together to find an ensemble. I have visions of Ben

gripping his chest while Annie tries to grab the credit card out of

his wallet. Not pretty. Which brings me to the subject of budget.

Sending a daughter to Knott’s Berry Farm in an expensive dress is

just wrong. And the fact that the beautiful shoes get tossed aside in

favor of flip-flops before they even get to their destination really

irks me.

How can you cross the threshold into womanhood if you actually

insist on having comfortable shoes? It’s not a concept that I

understand. You can’t appreciate those flip-flops if you’ve never

experienced eight hours of high-heeled strappy sandals at an

amusement park. I think salespeople actually run away from

mother-daughter combos. And I don’t blame them.

There’s just too much “my mother, myself” energy. It’s like being

a push-me-pull-you. “Try this on.” “No it’s fugly.” “It will look

better when you try it on.” “You try it on.” You get the flavor. How

do 17-year-olds decide that they don’t look good in spaghetti straps?

Or in pink? Or with their hair up? They’re only 17. How can they “know” all of this? I’m 44 and I still don’t know what I look good

in. I want to know where they acquire all of this sage wisdom. Oh

yeah, from superior sources like “The Bachelorette.” I have

apparently honed my minuscule skills from inadequate foundations.

Whatever happened to renew-reuse-recycle? Would it be awful to get a

new top to wear with the black silk skirt that already hangs in the

closet? The answer is “yes.”

I do a lot of recycling in my closet. Oh yeah, I’m very old. So do

I sound bitter? I’m not, really. I remember having the same angst

with my mother when I was in high school. I also remember a couple of

desperation dresses that were big mistakes. I think there was one

yellow wrap-around that never even made it to a dance. I thought I

had to have a back up in case the perfect dress and I didn’t find

each other. I never found the perfect senior prom dress, but I didn’t

wear that horrible yellow dress either. I went back to one of the old

standbys. I recycled, but that was the ‘70’s. So, as you read this on

Jan. 26, we will have just returned from a water polo tournament

where we have undoubtedly NOT done any shopping. That gives the

daughter approximately 10 more days to contemplate whether it’s worth

looking for the perfect match, to wear her backup dress still hanging

in the plastic bag or to get creative with the existing soldiers in

the closet.

Is the dress the best part of the evening? No way, it’s the

friends that count. Will anyone even remember what she wears? Well, I

probably will. After all, I did just tell you about my big yellow

mistake. My enduring memory of Winter Formal 2003? Watching Annie

proof this article before I send it in, seeing that huge smile beam

in that freckled face and hearing her laugh out loud about our

hideous shopping experience. Having her tell me that yellow just

isn’t my color, and knowing that in 27 years this moment will be:

priceless.

* KAREN WIGHT is a Newport Beach resident. Her column runs

Saturdays.