Cinderella had it easy. A fairy godmother, pumpkin and Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.

Cinderella had it easy. A fairy godmother, pumpkin and Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.

I needed a formal dress. So in the spirit of ageless Prom-goers everywhere, I called my Fairy Girlfriend. “Can we find a dress making me look fabulous, metaphysically 20 years younger and at a price that my family can still eat next week?”

“I know just the place,” my Fairy Girlfriend chirped. She sounded confident. Just like the 20 years I’ve known her, a best friend who let me hold the popcorn during “Pretty in Pink” long before we met our significant others, firstborns or first collection agents.

 Meeting at the shop, we entered to dresses stuffed, puffed and pouring forth in a space looking like my daughter’s chest of drawers.

 “What about this one?” My Girlfriend suggested.

 Cut up and cut down, it would probably show too much middle-aged me.

 “I’ll try it.” First rule of buying dresses. No matter how ridiculous one might look on the hanger…you can never tell without slipping it on. It was too dark (and too ridiculous).

Next she pulled out an animal print saying, “How fun.” I slid on fun. Dear heavens.

 “I’m thick,” I gasped.  My middle spread forth like the Mississippi Delta reaching for the Gulf of Mexico. Overnight, I’d gone from Alice in Chains to Alice of the Brady Bunch. The image of Alice (with my face), in her housekeeping togs, sunning herself on the sands of Destin still haunts my dreams.

“Jamie, you’re being silly. Besides, it’s happening to me too. We are getting older you know.”

 “I didn’t look like this six months ago, did I?”

She just stared at me holding her wand at half-mast.

I fired my Fairy Girlfriend.

The next few glorious minutes we cursed the evils of time and spilled deep fantasies about flesh-colored, industrial-strength beauty pageant duct tape. My Fairy Girlfriend would wrestle her generous top pushing, lifting and pressing till everything busted up to its former glory. I wondered how a few skillful placements of tape on my backside could replace 200 hours on the Precor at the Fitness Center.

 We tried one more dress. It was strapless. My rule number two is anything strapless is to be avoided like calf-length black socks exposed to sunlight. In strapless things, my chest appears to have spent the weekend in a George Foreman grill while my hips wear a giant fried onion ring.

But I liked the color and there was rule number one — so I slipped it on, turned and…

It worked. It worked a lot.

For a moment, I didn’t think of flesh-cutting scissors, sutures or fat-sucking leeches. For a moment, the young spirit shone through and said, “Hi. Glad you finally stopped that nonsensical babbling. I’ve been waiting for someone to go to the ball.”

I didn’t look at the price tag. Well, I did for a moment, but then there’s my rule number three. No matter what your age – putting on a dress that makes you feel beautiful is priceless. Buy it. I give you permission to look knockout. Think of it as an investment with lots of dividends. Just ask my husband.

 And besides, now I’ve got something new to wear on the beach this summer.