Seeing other women’s beauty is easy, seeing my own is hard. The reasons are both generic and specific. A culture that worships the perfection of youth. Shaming parents. The body cast that covered my torso from shoulder to hipbone my freshman year of high school. Therapy and affirmations and self-improvement have helped me to reclaim a sense of ease and appreciation for this body, but I still struggle to have the confidence that other women, including my daughter, seem to just naturally possess.
On Christmas Eve, my 20something daughter and I are in Paris, walking through the 7th arrondisment, when I notice a name on a shop sign that I recognize from decades of reading fashion magazines. That Sabbia Rosa is an upscale lingerie store is immediately evident from the lovely white satin nightgowns on the mannequins in the display windows. Since Tina is interested in fashion design, I suggest we take a peek inside.
Tina quickly finds something to try on and disappears into one of the dressing rooms, while I wander around a bit, checking out the multitude of prints and colors. On a whim, I decide to try on something. From the rack, I choose an exquisite floral slip in autumnal colors on a white background, with rust lace, and the shop girl hangs it in the other dressing room. Peeling off the winter layers of coat, scarf, and boots takes a while. Finally, it’s me and the tiny slip. Cut on the bias, this one-size-fits-all gown hugs every curve, the ones I like and the ones I’m not so fond of. The length just above the knees, shows off my legs. When I peek out from behind the curtain, my daughter (who looks gorgeous in everything) enthuses, “It looks great on you, Mom!,” The shop girl agrees, adding, “You can even wear it as a dress!”
The colors remind me of a John Donne poem about the beauty of an autumn face.
Back again in the privacy of the dressing room, I gaze at the woman in the mirror. A woman in the autumn of her life, with long, auburn hair and brown eyes with flashes of green. A woman whose skin is no longer girlishly smooth, whose belly is rounded and stretch-marked from childbearing, whose body shows the effects of gravity. Gazing into the mirror, I struggle to suspend my disbelief until I can see her as beautiful, as desirable. There, there, it is. A beauty that is not airbrushed perfection or the flawlessness of youth, but the beauty of a body that can still dance, still feel deep joy.
As I slip off the dress, I glance at the price tag. Six hundred and thirty euros, or about the cost of my transatlantic ticket. I could dip into my savings and buy this nightgown, made in France, from French silk and lace. Another dress comes to mind, a pricey little black number by French designer Azzedine Alaïa that I tried on once. It was a dress that also embraced every curve, like all of his clothes. At that time, I could have afforded it more easily than I can this one, but I totally lacked the confidence to wear it. Browsing in a bookstore here, I saw a quote by Alaiä, along the lines of why would any woman spend big money on a little skirt, if not for seduction; why else wear clothes. Indeed, the Parisian department store, Galeries Lafayette, refers to its lingerie section, which takes up an entire floor, as “seduction fashion.” However, if I buy this slip of a gown, I will not be looking to seduce another, but to please myself.
A few days later, just before leaving Paris, I return to Sabbia Rosa to try on the gown again. The shop girl remembers me. “Is everything alright?,” she calls out as I stand for a few minutes gazing again at the woman in the mirror. The gown is just as exquisite, the woman wearing it looks just as lovely as before. Resolving to remember this image in those future moments, when insecurity or Botox temptations assail me or old age overtakes me, I take a picture of her with my mental camera.
When I’m 90, I want to remember this moment.
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