By Elizabeth Luciano

The first fancy, grown-up dress I ever owned was tea-length, pink and beige, with a million tiny pleats in the skirt. My mother took me all the way into New York City, to B. Altman’s department store, to buy it. The occasion was the eighth grade dance.

There is a photo of me, standing in front of our Levittown-style house at dusk: unsteady on my high heels; my hair swept up; pensive in my new adulthood. There have been other Fancy Dresses I have known and loved: the cream-colored lacy gown that went to the prom my junior year (lovely), and the slate-blue column gown that went my senior year (not so much -- what was I thinking?).

There was the Little Black Dress which I wore during my twenties. It was a hand-me-down, and had rhinestones on the shoulders. And there was the deep blue velvet bridesmaid’s dress that I actually did wear again and again (thank you, Cousin Mary).

Decades have passed, and I still occasionally find myself in desperate search of a Fancy Dress. These days, the events are the religious and generational landmarks of friends and family members: baptisms and Bat Mitzvahs, bridal showers and graduations.

I have discovered, though, that in my middle years, Fancy Dresses have gone from being a source of delight to a source of stress. I have come to the not-so-unique realization that time is short; life is short. We work, we raise kids, we try to keep the house from falling apart, we try to meet our women friends for a walk, or a cup or coffee, or a glass of wine. I am no longer willing to spend my time and energy prowling for parking spaces, leafing through dress racks, and standing in my underwear in a dingy dressing room, under unflattering light.

Not only is it shockingly time-consuming to locate a Fancy Dress, it is also troubling to consider the societal rule regarding how many times a Fancy Dress may be worn: once.

I’ve broken that rule. Dresses that have won my particular affection have been seen at three, four, and even five events – events at which photos were taken. Nevertheless, there’s a limit to how much the rule can be bent or broken. A woman who repeatedly wears the same Fancy Dress announces poverty or a deliberate lack of care; our garment becomes a statement about class, or morality, or both.

My husband, on the other hand, can wear the same suit to a wedding one week, a funeral the next week, and a business meeting in between. Same suit, different shirt, different tie, and everyone thinks he looks like a million bucks. And he does look like a million bucks. Yes, the suit was expensive, and will certainly require dry-cleaning, but he can wear it for years, without ever spending a single weekend scouting out bronze high-heeled sandals or a matching clutch.

And then there’s the fact that, while men’s suits provide a uniform that confers authority, women’s fancy dresses serve to put us in direct competition with one another. It’s as though each wedding or First Communion is a walk down the red carpet, each woman hoping to be judged kindly against her sisters, and, of course, her sisters-in-law.

This is a stupid game, and I don’t want to play anymore. It is too divisive, and too costly. From now on, special events in my life will be about the people at them, and not about my own ability—or willingness—to be decorative. I will focus on the idea that weddings and commitment ceremonies are about two people building a life together, and that class reunions are about remembering and renewing friendships, and that none of these are about finding a knee-length sheath in plum, with a matching organza shawl.

I’m going to bear in mind what the event celebrates, not which textiles I should drape over myself. Yes, I may make an occasional exception. On some far-off day, if one of my kids gets married, I might buy a bead-encrusted frock. But these exceptions will be exactly that. Exceptions. I hereby reject the Fancy-Dress Tax imposed on women.

Instead, I will buy two suits this season: one black, one pearl gray. These suits will take me to weddings, funerals, graduations, showers of every stripe, and will be simple enough to visit a lawyer’s office or a business meeting if the need should arise. They will not be so cutting-edge that they won’t last at least a decade.

I will buy them on sale.

And I will think more about people than prettiness.

Elizabeth Luciano teaches writing and literature at Bucks County Community College in Pennsylvania. Email: lizluci@yahoo.com