A few years ago I started noticing this trend in fashion blogging -- tutus.
Blame it on SJP and Sex and the City if you will, but tutus were suddenly everywhere. Petite girls, plus size girls, women of all shapes and colors were donning fluffy skirts and posing for pictures on rooftops, desert roads, beaches and urban city streets. Oh look, another tutu pic...
Cut to the present. I was deep in the throes of a stream of crappy dates -- feeling blue and lackluster. I'd sought solace at the bottom of many containers of Haagen Dazs Limited Edition Peanut Butter Pie. I had exasperated all my Back Up Guys via text and watched Sleepless in Seattle for the third time when I came to the conclusion of the cold, hard truth -- if I wanted to get My Magic back, I was going to have to get it myself. And that's when the idea pinged over my head like a cartoon lightbulb: I wanted a tutu.
What would I do with one? Where would I wear it? How on earth did buying one make sense?
I threw away each of these practical questions and turned to Etsy. A quick search revealed dozens of vendors offering tutus. I flipped through page after page til I found the perfect match and squealed in delight when I saw a HUGE color card to pick from. Did I want bright pink? Vivid aqua? Shocking yellow? And then I saw My Color. Electric Coral. It spoke it me. It Dolly Parton sang to me. Before common sense could intervene, I placed an order for my very own, custom-made tutu.
It arrived on a Thursday. Packed into a small, lightweight box. And when I took it out and released its glory unto the world -- the heavens sang.
It had magical powers. As if it was sewn from threads of whimsy and delight.
The tutu sat on the floor of my friend's apartment and gathered spectators, all coming to pay homage to it, having heard about it through the grapevine. Selfies were snapped. And every woman, no matter how old, how serious, or how jaded and "oh so, LA" became an enchanted little girl in its presence. Skinny girls. Big girls. Twenty-something girls and 40-something executives all melted into pools of giggling pleasure as she wrapped it around her waist. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Tutu.
Do you wonder what it feels like to wear a tutu?
Once you get over the silly feeling -- which lasts all of seven seconds -- you feel simply glorious.
You are transported back to your parent's living room, swirling around in oversized dress up clothes with sticky, jelly covered fingers. Before college or period cramps or micromanaging bosses. Before agonizing over each text He sent, stressing about debt, wondering when those wrinkles got there? When desire, not obligation, was your daily fuel.
You feel emotions you haven't dare been in touch with, since gravity hit your breasts and grey hair started creeping in at your crown. Whimsy. Glee. Enchantment. Freedom.
You know, the things "grown-ups" just don't allow themselves to feel.
For just those few minutes, you are The Little Princess, Sara Crewe, reunited with her father. Mary Lennox in her Secret Garden, blooming with flowers. Eloise running free through the Plaza. Alice gazing upon Wonderland for the first time.
For that period of time, striped socks, leg warmers, glitter Mary Janes and a polka dot skirt is a totally legit fashion choice. Spoonfuls of Nutella are a perfectly suitable dinner. Making a blanket fort with your BFF is the awesomest of Saturday night activities. She who had the most Lisa Frank stationary won at life. And nobody, and I mean nobody, could tell you that that plastic lanyard friendship bracelet made safety pinned to a sock while sitting cross-legged on the bed wouldn't last forever and ever and ever.
You are Madonna. And Tiffany. And the sky isn't just blue, it's "Electric Blue" (thank you, Debbie Gibson) and you can paint the world any color you like with your brand new set of scented markers and glitter lip gloss and hair sprayed with Sun In...
But then the Galaxy beeps on the table next to you.
And the spell is broken.
Crestfallen you take your tutu off. Pack it (somewhat) neatly back into the box. And return to life. Your boss emails. And the phone clangs and dings in your hands. The Internet goes out (again) and you unplug the router for the eighth time. And your jeans are tighter than they were last week (whaat?) and you look forward to your current definition of Saturday night awesomeness activities, eating Chipotle and catching up on Scandal.
But as you stuff that box away under your bed, you touch it lovingly. You'll always have that box. Stuffed with your tutu. That fluffy, frothy, magical tutu. Sitting at rest and waiting. It's yours to cherish. To take for a whirl when you need it the most. When you need to remind yourself its ok to be young at heart, to make friends with that little girl inside you with the jelly covered fingers. To never entirely let her go. And nobody, we mean nobody, can tell you that joy won't last forever and ever and ever.
And so I urge you, from one woman to another. Find your tutu. If you're feeling frisky, get your own! But if tulle and ribbon isn't in your future, find something. Something that belongs only to you. A dress in your favorite color. The faded New Kids on the Block tee you've had since the 7th grade. Or something made of lace. Something, anything, that when you slip it over your head makes you utterly impervious. To stress and to obligation. To big, scary decisions with lots of consequences. To transport you to a more simple time when you lived in the moment, time was on your side, and anything was possible.
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