Ken's class reunions were always fun. He went to a small, rural parochial school and the boys grew up to be a tight-knit group of young men. Unlike most classes, they had a class reunion every year. We had gone to these singularly drunken affairs for two years already. I usually wore my little corduroy skirts and practical shoes and I DID NOT drink! When morning rolled around, I could always be counted on to help get breakfast for those still standing . . . rather like someone's kid sister.
The third year, I decided to establish a new image. I had gotten a little older and a little more sophisticated. I had a new "little black cocktail dress" which made me feel very mature. It was a sleeveless crepe number, very short (we wore mini skirts back then) and with a simple strand of silver sequins around the cowl neck. I had a pair of little, strappy, spike- heeled silver shoes to wear with it and I felt great when I'd finished my makeup and hair. I figured I'd knock 'em dead.
When we arrived, my dress had the desired effect. Eyes popped all over the place. There was nothing risque or even immodest about the dress, but it was definitely not "kid sister-ish." Knowing I didn't drink, someone offered me a glass of fruit punch and I gratefully accepted. I sat down with a giant glass of a sweet, fruity red punch and began visiting with women I hadn't seen in a year. The frosted glass was one of those which is smaller at the top than it is at the thick base, making it "bottom heavy." As I sat chatting, the glass neatly slipped from my fingers before I could stop it, pouring my punch down the entire center front of my dress, and landed loudly on the floor, spinning in an erratic circle until it came to rest next to the leg of my chair.
Crepe, in 1967, was a dry-cleanable-only fabric and I got a thorough demonstration as to why. As I sat there starring in horror at my dress, it began to shrink . . . only up the center front where it had gotten wet. Every eye in the room had turned my direction when the glass crashed to the floor and now all were riveted on my disappearing skirt. Up it crawled to mid thigh and than even higher, revealing the tops of my stockings and my lacy black garters. I was afraid to stand up but I couldn't just sit there. Among other things, that icy drink was cold and I was soaked in it. If I jumped up now, though, I wasn't sure exactly how much skirt I had left. I could feel my cheeks flaming red hot. My audience seemed to be holding its collective breath. Seconds dragged on like hours.
I grabbed the hem and tried vainly to stop its upward march. The side-fronts now looked as if they had been shirred and gathered onto the front. I looked around urgently for Ken as the woman I had been chatting with, unable to control herself any longer, broke into a fit of laughter. Her hoots, at least, brought Ken to see what was happening in the living room. Frantically I motioned him to me.
"Quick," I said, "find Louise!" Louise was our hostess and I was hoping she might have something . . . anything . . . I could put on before I was rendered completely indecent. I felt like the main event in a peep show as it was.
"What happened to your dress?" Ken asked, staring unabashedly at my lap.
"It shrunk," I snapped out, "now get Louise!" He showed no signs of moving and I was beginning to panic.
"How'd that happen?" he asked, still staring.
"Ken! Get Louise!" I hissed, controlling my voice with monumental effort.
"Why?" Was he going to stand there all night? He couldn't be drunk, we hadn't been there that long and besides, he didn't drink much.
"Ken . . .," I began and stopped when even I could hear a whine of desperation in my tone. If I opened my mouth again, I was afraid I might start to cry and that would only make matters worse. Fortunately, Louise herself showed up to see what all the commotion was about. I felt hysteria closing in rapidly and knew I had to get out of there.
"Come on," Louise laughed when I explained my predicament, "I've got something you can put on. Let's see if maybe we can iron your dress back the way it should be." She headed off towards the back of the house.
"Wait, Ken," I grabbed him urgently by the arm, "you've got to help me get out of here!" I stood up and plastered myself against his back. We did a little step-together number, synchroniously moving to the back of the house in the general direction Louise had gone: right foot; left foot; right foot; and all the while I clung tightly to his waist. My skirt, when I had stood up, barely reached the bottom on my panties in the front!
Once in the sewing room, I found Louise already waiting for me with one of her moo-moos. I was 5'4" and weighed about 120 lbs. Louise was 5'8" or so and weighed well over 200 lbs. Even for a moo-moo the fit was not great, but I was greatful nonetheless although I felt somewhat like Omar in a grey tent splashed with cerise and hot pink passion flowers. A wonderful contrast to the sexy silver heels. Very droll. Quite comedic.
Louise tested; the iron was warm. "Here," she said, "you pull down on the skirt and I'll iron."
I looked at my dress on the ironing board. "Do you have a tape measure?" I asked, "I want to measure it first." She handed me a tape from her sewing basket. The dress had shrunk thirteen inches in the center front! I pulled and Louise ironed until my fingers ached and then we traded places; Louise pulled while I ironed. We switched back and forth several times and then hung the dress up to finish drying. We scrutinized it carefully. The front of the skirt was still too short and the bottom flared out in a strange, rippling way.
"Maybe the finger marks will come out when it finishes drying," Louise offered somewhat doubtfully, trying to encourage me. "I'll come back in a little bit and check on it for you, OK?" I could hear her stiffled snorts as she started out of the room in front of me.
We headed back to the party: the hostess with Omar trailing in her tent and silver heels. Now I was ready for a glass of that fruit punch. This time, however, I got a mug and had them fill it up. I kept a good grip on the handle. I got rid of the passion-flower tent when my dress finally dried; even with the oddly shaped hem it was better than the moo-moo.
I took that dress to three different dry cleaners to have it blocked. I made no attempt to explain how those finger marks came to be a permanent part of the hem. Although all three seemed like they really wanted to know, none were bold enough to actually ask. I left them speculating. After three unsuccessful attempts, I finally cut the dress off and turned it into a formal tunic. I never cared for it that much, though.
Twenty-five years later, I happened to meet Willie Verboort, one of Ken's old classmates, at a business meeting in town. I hadn't seen him in probably fifteen years and wasn't sure he'd even remember who I was. He looked at me a moment then his eyes and mouth both crinkled up, "Hey," he said, "shrunk any more dresses lately?" I guess maybe he remembered.
