It’s strange. As human beings, we’re drawn to what’s different—someone or something that stands apart. It thrills us. It gives us that little electric jolt and lifts us to cloud nine when we finally claim it. But once it’s ours, we start to resent its uniqueness. If others don’t see it as valuable, we begin to devalue it too. Then, to avoid unwanted attention—especially the bad kind—we want it to look ordinary.
My dress for Dhatri’s birthday was exactly like that. On the mannequin it was perfect—adorable, bold, impossible to ignore. When I wore it, the attention was overwhelming. Whispers followed; people noticed. I took it to the tailor the next day to make it “regular.” The tailor looked at me as if I were crazy. Wasn’t that dress perfect? How could he know that wearing it made me feel exposed, like I didn’t deserve that kind of notice? Instead of lifting me, it seemed to raise only others opinion of it.it was not serving me! I was serving it
I tried to bring the dress down to my level, but I couldn’t erase the memory of its once-perfectness. I would stare at it and feel eyes on me, and that made me angry. In the end I gave it away.
Later I bumped into someone who said, “You looked amazing that night.” A faint regret crept in. I wanted the dress back.
I’m not talking about a dress, of course
