Outfit Emergency Syndrome: Double Jeopardy

Party OES: I'm hosting a cocktail party for a fashion client in southern California on Friday. They make clothes; I like clothes. They're tan; I'm transparent. A new outfit is my only chance. Without proper attire, I'll be fired, run out of the building, will rue day forever, etc.

Date OES: Thursday is Valentine's Day. HCB is taking me on a hot date. The least I can do is show up in an outfit he's never once been asked to assess for ass fatness.

Setting: Tuesday night. My only available shopping day. Have already been to two Crossroads locations and a vintage shop. Cris, doyenne of high-end consignment stores, is my last chance. Sixteen minutes until closing.

Cue Rocky soundtrack.

5:44 pm: Cross threshold frazzled, frizzy (follicles very sensitive to stress), slightly out of breath and willing myself not to sweat. Also, have neglected to feed parking meter.

5:45 pm: Head straight for the black rack. Black is smart. A last-season little black dress, by virtue of being a little black dress, is safe from scorn. I'm thinking sheath. I'm thinking structure with sex appeal. I'm thinking Roland Mouret.

5:47 pm: I get Banana Republic (frumpy) and Theory (massive breast displacement). Also, have I mentioned that I have the longest torso in America? Structured sheaths are a pipe dream. Need new plan.

5:48 pm: Distracted by jeans rack. Love jeans. Need new jeans. Jeans Jeans Jeans. What am I shopping for again?

5:50 pm: Focus! Scan all remaining dress racks with laser precision. Thinking mini. Thinking empire. Thinking anything that's not this bright orange D&G Jackson Pollack tribute with the suggestive brush strokes. Money and taste: so tragic to have one without the other.

5:51: Wait, am I trying to buy one outfit or TWO? Is it even possible to find a single ensemble that can accommodate SoCal happy hour AND NorCal restaurant scene?

5:52: Exhume three-seasons-ago salmon floral Tracy Reese with netting from depths of orange rack. Re-scan black rack and find hidden Marc by Marc Jacobs aubergine silk mini with empire waist and bracelet sleeves. His fit model is my arch nemesis, but this is cute and I am desperate.

5:53: Attempt to put on first dress while wearing heels. Fall over and almost knock out entire row of canvas dressing room stalls. Woman in next stall gets view of be-thonged ass as it crashes unceremoniously to floor.

5:54: Mental note: do not wear salmon near legs in winter. Accentuates visible vein network.

5:55: Is it, does it, wait, it's two pieces. Where's the zipper? Wait, HOW do I get this thing on?

5:56: Oh! Cute! Or...is it cute? Do my legs look fat? Must put on glasses. Am I a giant Kewpie doll? It's too dark in here. Cannot find three-way mirror. Sales girls are glaring at me.

5:57: Surprised to find that Marc fits for first time in life. And size small at that. Seems suspicious...

5:58: Sleeves are flowy, whole thing is sort of...breezy. Have I been infected with SNED (Stevie Nicks Ethereality Disorder)? Next thing I know, I'll be accessorizing with dreamcatchers and feather roach clips.

5:59: Then again, it's flirty. Modern. Fun. Marc wouldn't let me down. (Yes he would.) But with clever application of black opaque tights, I can indeed kill two OES with one Marc!

6:00: They've turned off the music. I return favor by not rehanging dressing room detritus.

6:01: Scan dress for flaws, snags, makeup stains. Temporarily snag fabric with own nail in process.

6:03: A done deal for $139. Only history will tell. No returns or exchanges. And thankfully, no parking ticket.