A good dress, spoiled

I ruined a dress yesterday.

The dress is (was) one of my favorites -- a vintage pattern, made from a huge abstract print of blue and green, with x's and doughnuts (sorry about the poor description). I had just shortened the skirt to this summer's preferred length, and I had been looking forward to wearing it again.

I didn't spill ketchup down my front, or tear it climbing over a fence, or burn holes in it by running into someone holding a lit cigarette (which is actually a phobia of mine, come to think of it). No, I ruined the dress by wearing it on a day of such vast suckiticity that I think I won't be able to wear it again.

No, nobody died, and there was no blood and very little betrayal, but there was a lot of bleh concentrated into a small space.

I had another favorite dress that I ruined by wearing it on an unhappy birthday. I didn't realize that dress had been spoiled for a while -- I would keep putting it on, and expecting to feel that favorite-dress happiness, and things would just sour, inexplicably. Until I realized what was going on, and gave the dress to Goodwill.

I should really give this dress to Goodwill right away, cut my losses, but I'll probably try to salvage it. Hope springs eternal. (I need to take in the bodice a bit, anyway, as I've lost a little weight since last summer. Maybe that will cure the bad dress karma.)

Today I am wearing an alphabet-print full skirt that is bad-day-proof. I hope. Wish me luck.