I have a problem. A problem with dresses.
I know, I know. I don’t come off like someone who likes dresses. From your seat in front of your computer, I appear to be someone whose pants come equipped with suspenders and ride up to her armpits.
But I have a love affair with dresses. I covet them. I worship them. Fancy dresses, casual dresses, sundresses, nightgowns, cover ups. If it slips over my head and swishes I’m in heaven.
This winter Boss Lady declared me Queen of the Sweater Dress. It was a title I wore with pride and I fully intend to wrestle any of you who attempt to take it from me.
Here’s the thing: I look super awesome in dresses. While pregnant? They grew with me. And the kicker? I don’t have to match them to anything. They are one piece. They already match themselves.
So, I look cute and get to be completely lazy. And my wardrobe works pregnant, postpartum or MILF.
So now that it’s summer I desperately want more dresses. I crave them like drunk people crave White Castle. Selling my organs to acquire them seems completely rational.
Or perhaps….I’ll sell YOUR organs. I think I could rock a nurse’s uniform too. Plus, no unsightly surgical scars or recovery time. I’ll use the black market cash to surround myself in floofy materials and sweet necklines. no unsightly surgical scars or recovery time.
So, anyone want to come over this weekend? I’m serving cocktails…