I don’t think that a slip hanging out at the hem of a dress is a big deal these days, except maybe to little senior citizen ladies at church. Or a tearoom. It doesn’t hold the same allure in 2011 as it did 20 years ago, because I’ve seen women wear a slip as a dress. For purposes here, however, we’ll chat about the days when it would have been embarrassing, OK? Let’s pretend.
It’s been a while back…alright, it’s been quite a while back when I was a consultant in a cosmetics business. You know the one…it originated in Texas with a flamboyant entrepreneur with blonde, bubble hair…and everything…everything…including the cars…was pink….
Anyhoo, great cosmetics, still use them, just had enough of the rah-rah-ree-sisterhood-of-the-pink-and-fluffy-cosmetics lifestyle. However, some great stories come from those days.
Several thousand of us, (I want to say 100,000, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t…) converged on the city of Dallas for “Seminar.” That’s a lot of pink. They were always very gracious to us and accommodated the hoopla with the aplomb that only a city like the Big D can.
Fleets of buses couriered les pink femmes from hotel to convention center in droves. Much-o pink-o. Wow. These pink gals were decked out. You have never seen the likes of so many matching business suits, hats, feathers, gloves, high-heels, jewelry (glittering, sparkling, bling-y, bling-y, oh-my….) And slips. Yes, slips.
One of my friends was immaculately coiffed, perfumed, and as expected, generally dolled up. She was a big gal. It was Dallas. It was July. The result was, well, may I be so genteel as to say, um, well…drippy. Yes, that’s it. Drippy. Well, you know…ladies don’t sweat, they glowwwww. So, Miss Priss was glowing in full force.
Underneath all of that pink was a soaking-wet slip. And since she had spent her money on the stuff that showed, well, she probably had her mind on some new bling…or chocolate. Nevertheless, she did not buy a new slip. This one was a little worse for the wear. The elastic waistband had seen better days.
Miss Prissy Pink-y in the Big D was carrying her handbag, her tote-bag (full of pink fluff) and probably had her mind on dinner. (Supper, as they say down South.) Ya’ll. (OR, the aforementioned chocolat’.)
Miss P carried herself and all of her goodies down the steps of the bus, struggling in front of all those other pink suits to maintain her dignity in the heat and bustle. She felt her slip slide. Her hands were not free…nary a one to discreetly hike up a wayward elastic waistband. The slip continued to do what slips do. Slip.
Pinky stepped off the bus and as her feet hit the ground, so did the errant slip. She kept her head erect, chin up, eyes forward, lifted her high-heeled, business-pump-shod tootsies over the filmy tricot and kept walking. Never looked back. Not even a slight swivel. Slip? What slip.
Back in the swanky hotel rooms we hardy-har-harred over that one ‘til the wee hours.
I often wondered what happened to that slip.
I like to think that somewhere in the drainage tunnels of the streets of Pink Cowgirl Town lies a rumpled bundle of brown lace. Maybe a furry little creature with a penchant for bling potential slinked it home and scrubbed it up. She’s now sashayin’ through the ducts sportin’ a slip for a dress. Well. I nevah!
Have you got one that’ll top that? Please. Do tell.
Miss Cynthia L. H.
Miss Cynthia's Spot of Tea and Tales 