Flattered in Red

I wore a dress on Sunday. That in itself is not remarkable. The general reaction to the dress is what astounded me. This dress--knee-length red cotton (not knit) with white buttons top to bottom and a preppy polo collar--has been in my closet for years. Somewhere between 4 and 8, if I had to guess. And yes, I've worn it before. But on Sunday, I was complimented on it. Repeatedly.

Before I sat down in church, three people told me how cute it was. At the coffee shop, as I was waiting in line for the restroom, a woman and her friend at a cafe table told me it was adorable. Multiple relatives at an out-of-town family party exclaimed over it, going so far as to call me "the lady in red." (Unoriginal, but flattering nonetheless. I'm a sucker for cheesy wedding-reception songs.) Those who didn't mention the dress when I had it on asked what happened to it after I'd shed it in favor of shorts and a t-shirt--more comfortable for the long drive home on an August evening.

What was it about this latest appearance of the dress that made it more comment-worthy? Was I too fat before? Was my overly large chest straining at the buttons in an embarrassingly gaudy way? Perhaps my fluffier midsection made me look like a cherry Popsicle--the kind with two pale sticks poking out the bottom. Did people not want to compliment me on it for fear that I'd take their kind words as encouragement and wear the offending article more often?

I'll never know. I'll never ask. But you can bet that I'll wear it again.