After watching C-Span for about an hour, I checked out of the hotel and drove to Lennox Square in Buckhead, one of my top places to window shop. Since I need to have a knee-length black cocktail dress to wear in Bonnie’s wedding in January, I thought that I would take this opportunity to try on all of the dresses that I might want but can’t afford. Let the fun begin!
Bebe, Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, Betsey Johnson, Ann Taylor, Guess, Juicy Couture, Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my! Towards the end of my fun, I went into the BCBG Maz Azria store where, of course, I wanted everything. I told the salesgirl what I was looking for and she set up a room with three dresses, all in my size. The first was good. The second was great. The third was the dress for me. I won’t waste time describing it because I don’t posess the adjectives, but let’s just imagine the best cocktail dress ever that fits you perfectly and then slap an enormous price tag on it. More than my laptop. More than my wedding dress. More than the armchairs I want to get for Christmas. But otherwise perfect.
After I finish admiring the dress, I go to unzip it. Well, that’s funny. The zipper slid up so easily, why isn’t it coming down like it should? Hmm. I turn the dress around so that the zipper is in the front and I still can’t manage to get it to move. It isn’t stuck on any fabric, it isn’t because I’m too fat, it just won’t budge. So I ask the salesgirl to help me, but she can’t get it either. Then she gets another associate and – nope. Since we had no luck with six hands, we thought that eight might be better and called over the manager.
So there I am, in my underwear in the changing area with four girls crowded around me trying to get this blankety-blank zipper to move even a centimeter and thanking the stars that I remembered to pack my pretty polka-dotted undies. The manager assured me that this happens all the time, but I thought she was just trying to make me feel better. When I stated this, she said ‘no really, our regular customers just know to have their zippers replaced before they wear their new clothes.’ Huh? Isn’t this supposed to be high quality wear? I was shocked. But not as shocked as I was when the manager pulled scissors out of her vest, a fancy pair that said BCBG: Fabric Only. Was she serious? Cut this beautiful dress?! No way.
Yes way. She cut down the side of the zipper about three inches, just enough for me to slide out the rest of the way. We checked the dress after I took it off and the zipper remained stuck like it had been superglued. Fearful that I was going to be charged for the dress, I asked what she planned on doing with it. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we’ll probably sell it in our annual As-Is sale. You can have it now for half off, if you want.’
As tempting as it was, I still couldn’t bring myself to purchase that beautiful, beautiful dress, even at the discounted price. If I’m going to spend that much money on something at this stage in my life, it isn’t going to be a cocktail dress, unless its made out of something exceedingly rare, like unicorn eyelashes. Reluctantly, I said goodbye to the helpful girls with whom I had grown so very, very close. I also bade a fond farewell to the dress, while giving the zipper the bird. I know that it will find a happy home with some girl who doesn’t mind the idea of being trapped in a black strapless for the rest of her life, just trying to get the zipper to cooperate. Wherever you are, I wish you luck. As for me, I think I’ll stick to eBay.