The Pink Suit

It's over ten years old. It has mothholes in it, and the color has faded from fuschia to a sickly kind of pinkish gray. The hem has unraveled, and threads stick out like crazy strands of pink hair. I held it to my chest and sighed. It was so beautiful. And I never got to see what I looked like in it. I never wore it. Not once.

When I saw it in Bergdorf Goodman's, I knew I had to have it. I had just received a big commission check; I cashed it quickly and felt the heat of the money smoking in my pocket. I had to buy something beautiful, something I never could afford before now.

I had never gone to the designer floor before that day. They treat you differently there. They gently take your selections from your arms and set it up in your own special dressing room. When they smile at you, the smile reaches their eyes. They speak softly and are always there when you need them. The dressing room is huge, more like a living room with a couch, four mirrors, and a marble stand with a little pot of coffee.

Size twelve. That was the biggest size they had. I was teetering much closer to a sixteen, but I knew that I would fit into it if I just starved myself for a bit. I knew I could do it. A half a grapefruit and coffee for breakfast and a tiny piece of chicken for dinner. Make sure to feel the rumbling of the stomach as I wait for sleep. Sweet and horrible hunger pains. The Pink Suit. It was worth it. I would have had my jaw wired for it, it was so beautiful.

I squirmed as I gently pulled the skirt up my legs, grimacing when it stopped at the swell of my upper thighs and hips. The jacket, very long, single breasted, dramatically cinched at the waist and flaring out and down to the mid thigh, barely buttoned...you could see the black lace of my bra in the gaping holes. No matter. It will fit, because I must have this suit.

"Come out and let me see you," the saleslady cooed through the curtain, and I panicked.
"No, I already took it off. Too late."
"Oh, well, did you like it?"
"I am buying it," I told her, a little bit too firmly. The little white price tag caught my eye for the first time: $1025.00. That was almost the whole check, and most of what I had in my pocket. I didn't care.
"Wonderful!" she said, and I thought she was going to clap her hands.

That was over ten years ago. While cleaning out old boxes of stored clothes, I recently came across it. The skirt wouldn't make its way much past my ankles. Now it's going to the dump, after all these years in a dark and musty box. How I tortured myself through the years with clothes that didn't fit, that would never fit! Why did I let them hang in my closet, mocking me, tags still attached? Every meal I enjoyed was a blasphemy because of those limply hanging accusers.

I found myself humming as I jammed it in the garbage can. Maybe I threw away more than a suit. I hope to God I did.