Looking out my Backdoor: Elegant living in a green dress

We have numerous ways of fooling ourselves; at least I have. Little things, like “A change is as good as a rest” for when I get bogged down on a project. Or, “If I take a walk, I will no longer want to piggy the rest of the liter of ice cream.” Good luck with that one.

In the interest of changing up my daily routine, this morning I put on my green dress. This is not just any green dress. This is an elegant green dress. It flows in simple lines all the way to my feet. The fabric is rich, a smooth blend of rayon, cotton and silk. A virgin dress. Never worn, never sullied.

I don’t remember when or where I bought this dress. This dress is “Me.” I’ve carted it around the country. I suspect I bought it when me was larger. It is a dress fit for an “occasion” and it might be the occasion never arrived.

Which is silly. Mexican women dress up for any and every, including no occasion excuse. They dress in finery that we Montana women, well, we Montana women are more comfortable in jeans and flannel. I speak for me.

In past times I’ve put my dress on, then took it off and hung it back in the closet. Too dressy.

Today is the day. Occasion be hanged. Who knows when a real occasion will present.

That green dress slid over my body like a slinky toy going down a stairway, smooth and easy. Mmmmm ummm. Felt so good. Swished around my ankles. Looking good, woman.

Made cowboy coffee and heated a pastry in the oven. Sat like a proper lady through my morning readings. Maybe there is something to be said for tarting up now and then.

Time for my physical therapy exercise. Now I need to make a decision. Grumble. Off with dress, on with clam diggers and loose Mexican blouse. I huff and puff through my routine, head out the door for a walk back and forth on rancho lanes, finishing with exercise bicycle.

Side story: While still bed-ridden after surgery, I began thinking about therapy to come. I know the benefits of a stationary bike. This is not my first stroll around the block.

So I put the word out to those who spoke Spanish that I’d like a bike. A simple bike. Not one with electronics or electrical plug. Not one that told me I ate too much or insisted I go faster or that rated my heart (broken more than once and never repaired), or depicted hills to climb. A simple stationary bike.

Ariel, Lani’s husband, found me a bike that might be older than me. Low mileage, rode only on Sunday by a little old lady going to church, still has original tires. Ariel chipped off the rust, painted the chassis, greased the chain and generally spiffed it up. We added a brand new big-butt seat. That bike is perfect. But I can’t ride it in an elegant green dress.

Finished with my morning routine, I shucked pants and slid back into my green dress. While sliding the dress over my head, I noticed the bottom third of the dress had picked up a collection of hitch hikers, stray hairs and dust bunnies.

Off with the dress. Dusted, swept and mopped my floors. Now I’m hungry. Clock says 1:30. Might as well eat.

On with the dress. The rest of the day, by now it is 2:30, is mine, mine, mine to sloth about, read and rest and pretend to a life of elegant leisure. I swan out to my little patio spot beneath the jacaranda tree, brush the jacaranda flowers off the seat of my blue metal rocker and sit, book in hand, sigh of satisfaction on my lips, dress softly nestled against my body. Life is good.

This jacaranda tree is an avian paradise, a gentlemanly elder tree, shading half my back yard, providing nest sites for a number and variety of feathery friends. It was bound to happen. A commotion above me. I looked up. Fortunately my mouth was closed. Splat on my green dress.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.