Men--do not read--you will never understand. Go back to ESPN. You are from Mars, we're from Venus, truer words were never spoken.
Ladies, I found the dress languishing on the 50% off rack, whispering, crooning romance. So out of place there in that crass, commercial world, on that rainy autumn day. I glance at it quickly, furtively, rush away--no, no, I will not, I sternly lecture myself. A fragrance of lilacs seems to follow me, suddenly there is birdsong, a green summer wind. I melt. I am young again. Until I see another woman eyeing the dress. Breath quickening, heart pounding, I sprint back to the rack, rescuing it in the nick of time. Draping it's silken folds over my arm, we dash together to the dressing room. The dress won't fit, I assure myself--it's the wrong size, too long, too short, too wide, too tight. The soft green fabric glows, sings to me as I slip its sensual length down my body. It fits perfectly, as if it were made for me.
The dress knew. When it saw me it knew we were meant for each other. There is no doubt in my mind---this is fate. The dress knows--that I am a poet, that I am perhaps the last romantic in my world. The dress doesn't care how old I am. The dress doesn't mind that I live in the Southwest, where a denim skirt is considered formal wear. The dress doesn't realize that I'm a grandmother, an old lover. The dress is magic. It knows that when I wear it, my man, too, will be transformed. Mel Gibson, Harrison Ford, Sean Connery, all rolled into one. Who can resist Fate?
I buy it, assuring myself that I will return it when I come to my senses. The dress seems to shrug in my arms--who are you kidding? I take it home, hang it above my closet door. The man who shares my bed glances at it, doesn't ask. O bless his heart. I walk by the dress. Touch it. Again. And again. Touch becomes caress--sensual, soft, enticing. Years slip away from me. Wrinkles fade. Isadora Duncan, Zelda Fitzgerald, Jane Austen and me. That summer wind whispers again. Who can resist???