Every Girl Needs a Black Dress

One defining moment of my hatred of my body happened when I was eighteen. I won a scholarship to be used toward my college fund. For someone that never tried out for awards nor entered contests, it was a big deal to win. Of course, there was a catch- I had to give a public speech. For once though, I wasn't paralyzed with fear. I felt good about winning. My mother was excited, she finally had a chance to play dress-up with me. We searched for days, and settled on a modest black dress. As she liked to say, "Everyone girl needs a black dress to hang in the closet". I felt normal, and it felt nice. I was all ready for the ceremony when my father stopped by to say hello and wish me luck. He wanted to know what else I had to wear, and my heart sank. Throughout my life, he had taken it on as a personal crusade to convince me to lose weight, as if I liked being overweight and would remain so unless he berated me about every cookie and chip he saw me eat. As I rummaged through my closet for something more appropriate, I could hear my parents arguing through the door. He yelled at my mother and told her, in no uncertain terms, that I could not wear a dress, that it looked awful and would embarass him and me, and why couldn't she have been sensible and found me a pants suit. I wore the dress, finding nothing else even remotely fancy to replace it. My confidence was shattered and it was a miserable day for me. To this day, I have never worn a dress. And yet, the black dress (now much too big and ten years later) still hangs in the back of my closet because, as everyone knows, every girl needs a black dress.