Dressing Rooms and Death

Finally going home.

On Monday I had an appointment with a personal shopper at a   Chicago-area Nordstrom (a free service they provide) to find a dress for my niece's wedding. I had figured, and rightly so, that having another person pull dress options for me would make the process easier and would be more likely result in a successful outcome. My appointment was scheduled for 11am. At 2pm I left Nordstrom with the needed dress. The appointment was a success.

I, however, was a wreck. Both emotionally and physically exhausted, and, if I'm honest, kinda traumatized. This might seem like a dramatic over-exaggeration, but it is how I felt.

Here's how things went down:

I was greeted by a lovely woman named Diane who took me to a large dressing room where she had at least 20 dresses hung along two walls, as well as 4 pairs of heels, a few accessories, and a bottle of water. She did a quick walk through of what she had pulled for me and then left me to get started.

The dressing rooms were hot and I was soon sweating. The lighting was your typical dressing room lighting, which is to say, terrible. It made my skin look ever pastier white than it actually is, and accentuated the red splotches on my legs from a lovely skin condition I developed in my 40s. So, not exactly starting off great, but I tried to remain positive and got to work trying on dresses.

Something you should know about me is that I currently live an ultra-casual lifestyle. I work from home and when I leave the house it's mostly either to run errands, cart kids around, or volunteer at a dog rescue...not things you dress up for. As well, like many people I gained a shit-ton of weight during the pandemic and have never had to dress this larger body in anything dressier than jeans or a sundress. My lifestyle also means that I don't spend a lot of time in front of mirrors (which I think is a wonderful thing). I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror from time to time, and am completely unfazed by my image, but that's about it. (P.S. Photographs are actually my kryptonite, but that's for another post.)

So when I say spending 3 hours looking at nothing but my own reflection in dresses ranging from nice to not bad to horrid was traumatizing, I'm not kidding. I was not prepared to be confronted by my mirror image for so long. Because that image does not match what I see in my mind. It was like being confronted with an alternate reality and being told where you've been living all this time isn't the real world.

Over and over again I was made to stare at a person I didn't know. A rounded, softened, doughy, pale woman shaped like an apple atop a tree trunk...or just a rather clunky, awkward rectangle. Who was this top-heavy woman? Is this the same person who plays tennis three times a week? The same one who does yoga and walks the neighborhood? The same one who spent the majority of her life as a happy-go-lucky size 8?

Once I'd found a few dresses that seemed like real options, ones that looked halfway decent on my apple tree, the stylist recommended we take photos to help select the dress. And it was like a gut punch. Turns out what looked decent in the mirror, slid downhill to marginally better than horrid on my phone.

At this point I've been at it for well over two hours. I am hot and sweaty. I am tired and hungry. And I am ready to give up. I shove the horror down into that deep place where we hide shame and I bought a dress.

I thanked the lovely Diane for all of her help and hurried to my car. I sat stunned in the parking garage. I wanted to cry, just for the release. But my defenses wouldn't let me. That's me, I thought. Over and over again. That's me. That's me. That's who I am now. I'm a washed out, worn out, apple tree.

I drove home. I told my husband I was exhausted. And tried to just let the experience go.

And then I opened Facebook.

There I found a post from the dog rescue I volunteer with. One of our volunteers had been killed Sunday in a horrific car crash. This was not someone I knew well. I'd met her. Mostly I'd seen photos of her working at our adoption shows or dog-dashing (driving around) our pups. Heard her name from the mouths of others within the rescue. But now, this woman who had just been here was gone.

And I couldn't stop thinking about her. About her life. About what she might have been thinking or talking about just before the other car crossed the center line and hit the van she was riding in head on. I couldn't stop wondering about what she had planned for Monday. Was she planning to head home from visiting family in southern Illinois? Was she looking forward to volunteering this week? Did she have plans to meet a friend for coffee? Or do her grocery shopping and a load of laundry? I'm certain she had things on her calendar for this week. I'm sure she had plans.

Instead, in the span of a few heartbeats, it was all gone. 

I stared into the distance thinking about her and thinking about her, and the life that was no more. All the plans that didn't matter now.

Her name was Julie Schroeder and she will be missed...by her family and friends, and by everyone at Second City Canine Rescue. 

I didn't really know her, and yet she's had an impact on my life this week. Because dressing rooms are no match for death. And the meaning isn't in the meat suit. 

For now, this squishy apple tree is alive and kicking, and the person inside is going to enjoy the shit out of her niece's wedding, dressing rooms be damned.

Until next time, appreciate life as best you can.