Fancy

The word 'fancy' came up the other day, and it got me thinking about this particular story.  Here 'tis...

It was my last year at Parsons School of Design.  For anyone in the fashion design department, the senior fashion show was a major event.  We'd spent the last several months working alongside designers like Isaac Mizrahi, Donna Karan and Michael Kors.  We'd seen our ideas go from rough sketch to final product, and soon they would strut down the runway.

My family was coming to New York. 

The show was to be held at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square, and it was a black tie affair.  Designers and industry big-whigs would attend.  There was salmon on the menu.  My brother rented a tux.

One evening, my mom called, excited to tell me she'd found a dress for the occasion.

"Hi, Darling.  I found a dress for your show.  I think you will like it."

"Oh, good.  What's it like?"

"Well, it's kind of a slip dress.  It's black."

"Oh, that sounds nice."

"Yes, and it has spaghetti straps with little rhinestones."

"Oh, OK."

"Yeah, and then in the back there is a big ruffle that goes over the hips, and that has little silver sequins on it."

"Huh."

"And then there's a little jacket that goes on top with red feathers around the neck.  It's kind of glittery."

"Oh, really?"

"But you will really love the sleeves.  They're kind of gathered and really puffy.  I think they're satin."

Nervous silence. 

A few seconds went by and finally I said, quietly, "Um, I don't think you have to be quite that fancy."

Suddenly a burst of laughter exploded on the other end of the line and it didn't stop.  My mom had been teasing me, of course, knowing that I would never ever say, "Mom, that sounds hideous!"  She laughed and laughed and laughed, and so did I.

(By the way, her real dress was simple and elegant, and she was the most beautiful person there.)