I have numerous times on this blog referred to my inexplicable inability to take my dry cleaning to the dry cleaners (well, actually it is explicable—I am broke and also lazy—but I prefer to think of it as an unknown malady that has yet to be diagnosed). In fact, I was thinking that, thanks to my tendency towards self-deprecation, this blog will mostly be a record of things I suck at, like running, making gingerbread houses, opening cans, and understanding the proper uses of Canola Oil. Ah, my legacy. Anyway, moving on.
My cousin got married a few weeks ago (congrats, Steph and Kyle!), which forced me to dry clean at least one dress lest I show up wearing my ever-fetching favorite outfit of brown biker boots and a sack-like jersey dress. I chose for the occasion a watercolor blue Rebecca Taylor number that I bought last summer for my friends Betsy and Fipp's wedding (I chose the dress partially because I had only worn it once, so it wasn't really working too hard for all the money I spent on it, and also because Jeff doesn't like it and he wasn't coming to the wedding, so I figured I could give the dress some love without being self-conscious about its frontal bow ... Jeff doesn't like bows. He's not a bow man. And the bow kind of obscures my tits, which angers Jeff because he is a tit man. But I digress). ANYHOO I brought this dress to the cleaner across from my work on Park and Church. I dropped it off on Monday, May 11. And then at some point during the week I decided it wasn't worth the $11 and that I would just wear a different blue dress that was already clean. (Riveting, isn't it? I promise I'm going somewhere with this.)
As of this Monday I still hadn't picked up the dress, more than two weeks later (this is actually the most timely I have ever been about picking up dry cleaning. I once left a bunch of stuff for over two months and was so embarrassed that after I finally picked it up I never went back). I was thinking about it as I rode the train to work. I thought about my dress, and how little I'd worn it, and how very much I'd paid for it, and how I longed to wear it while sipping margaritas at some fancy garden party. And then I got out of the subway. AND THE DRY CLEANER HAD BURNED DOWN.
What we learned today, children, is that God hates the lazy and the cheap. And also probably bows.
RIP pretty blue dress.
I will always regret leaving you to perish in a crappy dry cleaners. At least we had that one magical night. It wasn't worth $400, but it was worth something.