Almost Perfect

We are two and a half weeks away from the tween’s bat mitzvah. It is almost crunch time, which makes me think of tacos. Mmm, tacos sound good, and appropriate too, because the theme for the bat mitzvah is a Mexican fiesta, the most Jewish party idea ever. We were able to find THE PERFECT DRESS, which honestly is a story for another day, but trust me, it’s exactly what a bat mitzvah should wear for her own fiesta. PERFECT it is, except it needed to be hemmed, so maybe not entirely PERFECT, but damn near close.

Then we had to find shoes to go with THE PERFECT DRESS, which we needed in order to get it hemmed. For those of you who don’t have to get things hemmed, and fuck you if you are one of those, you have to have the shoes you plan to wear with the pants or dress so you know where the hem should be. If you don’t believe me, look at women with boots. You can always tell a woman who knows about hems from where the hem of her pants hits the shoe of the boot. If the pants are tucked into the boot, she is very familiar with hems.

We had the shoes, we had THE PERFECT DRESS, so off we went to the alterations shop. We didn’t just go to any old shop; we went to our friend SS’s mother’s shop. SS is one of my husband’s dearest friends, the fool who introduced us, and an honorary uncle to my children. While he no longer lives in our town, his mother still does, and she has owned an alterations shop since forever. SS had given his mom a heads up to expect us, so when we arrived, she quickly grabbed her bowl of pins and instructed the tween to change into THE PERFECT DRESS.

The tween emerged from the dressing room, a vision with a dragging hem. SS’s mother quickly got her to stand before the three paneled mirror as she knelt on the floor in front of her and eyeballed the right length and fold of the hemline.  After a few pins, she stood back to check the dress length, which was, of course, PERFECT. She sat down on the floor again and began to pin around the dress, taking into account the train, having the tween turn a bit at a time while she worked.

As she pinned, SS’s mother asked all the small talky questions to catch up from last we had seen each other:  how the girls were, their ages, how my husband’s business is doing, even the health of my ailing mother in law. Then she asked my least favorite question, “Do you work?”

I hate that question. The answer is always wrong somehow.  I do work, I work very hard. I just don’t earn a paycheck. People don’t want to know that. They want to know if you have a job. You either have a job or you don’t. Being a wife and mother is a lot of work, but the pay is shit, and nobody counts that as a job, except maybe for other stay at home moms. I volunteer too, but volunteering doesn’t count because you do it for free. The longer I stood there not knowing what to say, the more awkward I became.

“No,” I finally said. “No, I don’t work. Outside of the home. I don’t work outside of caring for my family.”

“So you don’t work?” she asked me again.

“No,” I said quietly. She stopped pinning and looked up at me.

“Good,” she said.

Around this time, a short, round man came into the shop, carrying two pairs of jeans. He wanted to get the inseams measured, which I found odd since most men’s jeans have the measurements right on the labels. He figured if she just measured the pants, she could cut off a couple of inches and he would be saved from the standing in the mirror and getting his little stubby legs pinned.  SS’s mom had him sit and wait while she finished working on the hem of the tween’s dress.

“She looks very pretty,” the man said as he sat down. “It must be prom season.”

It was late December. No amount of being polite would make this prom season.

“Thank you. But not quite. It’s for her bat mitzvah,” I said.

The man said nothing, which meant he didn’t know what a bat mitzvah is or he doesn’t like Jews, or, possibly, he had nothing left to say. SS’s mother finished pinning the hem and stood up.

“Quick question,” I asked her. “What about this?” I pointed to the tween’s chest, where the dress hung empty.

“I have just the thing,” she said and went behind the counter. She came back with two push up bra inserts, which she proceeded to shove down the tween’s dress. She arranged them just so, by both plunging one hand into the bust area while squeezing it into place from the outside of the dress with the other hand. All this took place in front of the man sitting with his pile of denim. I waited for the tween to start crying.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, sensing how uncomfortable my daughter was. “I can close my eyes.”

After a few more manipulations, SS’s mother asked how we thought it looked. The tween and I agreed it improved the lines of the dress, and she took out a few more pins to secure the inserts in place.

“Perfect,” the fat man declared.

“It is,” I agreed. “That’s why we call it THE PERFECT DRESS.”

I helped the tween back to the dressing room, and unzipped the back of the gown and undid the other strap.

“That was so embarrassing,” she whispered. “She stuck her hands right down the front of my dress, and that man sat and watched it all.”

I took the dress from her and hung it on the hanger.

“Today,” I said to her,” you are a woman.”