Since I don't (yet)

'Sue Park' cap-sleeve silk dress by DvF
$185.90 at nordstrom.com
(also available in black)

Since I don't (yet)

New 'Marple' skirt by Diane von Furstenberg
$125.90 at nordstrom.com

If I had a sugar daddy...

Fanta leather bomber by DvF
$695 at scoopnyc.com

If I had a sugar daddy...

Manola pencil skirt by Diane von Furstenberg
$255 at saks.com

If I had a sugar daddy...

Beach kimono by Diane von Furstenberg

$230 at shopbop.com

If I had a sugar daddy...

Enza jacket by Diane von Furstenberg
$367.50 at dvf.com (just marked down from $525!)

A dress to get you through 'Wedding Season 2007'

"As I'm sure you're well aware, wedding season is rapidly approaching. So far I already have 4 to attend in the next four months, and I'm expecting at least 2 more. Obviously, I don't want to nor can I afford to get a new dress for each one, so...can you recommend one really great dress that can carry me through 'til the end of summer? I'm brunette, 25, 5'6", a size 6 and like you, I like to show off my legs more than any other part of my body. I'd like to stay within the $300 range, but for the perfect dress, I'd consider spending more. Thanks!"

Ah, wedding season.

Aside from the day after Oscar Night when I'm reminded of the inferior state of my dress collection and the entire month of August when I'm looking out my office window thinking wistfully of laying out lakeside in northern Michigan with a Diet Vernors in one hand and a freshly-picked-from-Stone's-Orchard nectarine in the other, the four month period between May and September - known more commonly to those of us in our mid-20s to early-30s as "wedding season" - is the time of year to which I look forward the least.

Call me a downer, call me jaded, call me a worthless old-maid who doesn't like weddings because she can't nab herself a husband, call me anything, but please, for the love of god, just don't call me and ask me why I'm not more flippin' excited about having to reallocate upwards of $1,500 (last year's figure) of my hard-earned shoe, clothing and cosmetics slush fund to facilitate purchasing gifts and making travel arrangements for all of your engagement parties, bridal showers, bachelorette parties, and of course, the very intimate 300 headcount hap-hap-happiest day of your lives.

I can't, I just can't. And it's odd, too, because weddings have several elements to them that when taken individually, are elements I typically seek out and relish in my daily life. Dressing up, eating frosting, drinking beer someone else paid for, and bearing witness to sloppy middle-aged could-turn-belligerent-very-soon drunken behavior, for instance.

In the spirit of focusing on the positive, let's switch gears and talk about dresses. Not the awful, character-free strapless number with renaissance fair criss-cross backside and full princess skirt the bride is likely wearing, but rather your dress.

As I've stated before, in my opinion, a wedding, no matter how casual, demands a certain standard of class and respect for the occasion. In short, I believe in abiding by a strict "no cleavage" policy. I also believe in a hemline that falls no higher than two inches above the knee. Any higher and you're dangerously close to entering mini - or near-mini - territory. Other than those two basic guidelines, the rest is up to you. Apparently there's some rule about not wearing white, but I think this is a ridiculous restriction. It's summer, it's eyelet season, it's linen season, it's damask cotton season. As long as you don't wear a frock that looks overtly wedding-dress-competitive, you're fine to explore the ivory/white/eggshell color palette.

As for this particular woman, it's probably no surprise that I'm going to recommend this 'Justin' wrapdress in a vintage green print by Diane von Furstenberg ($325 at saks.com). Though I could go on and on about why I think every woman should own at least one of these dresses, in this circumstance I will focus on its versatility and sophistication.

First and foremost, this is a dress that goes well beyond 'Wedding Season 2007.' This is a dress that can make the rounds not only at future matrimonial circuits, but at countless other occasions as well like work, church, dates, cocktail hours, baby showers, graduations and dinner parties.

Second, this is a fun, bright, not-often-seen-but-highly-flattering-on-brunettes shade of kelly green that screams in a sophisticated voice, "Spring has arrived!"

Third, silk jersey is an extrordinarily breathable fabric that will keep you from getting goosebumps in overbearingly air-conditioned convention centers and protect you better than cotton or silk from developing unsightly pit-stains on a typical 90-degree, 90%-humidity DC summer Saturday.

Now I realize this dress is slightly above the price-point you gave me, but because I know for a fact you'll add it to your work wardrobe rotation AND fall in love with the way it enhances your curves, allows you to indulge in a with-or-without-cleavage deep-V neckline and highlights your great gams (especially on windy days when you "accidentally" tie the cinch a wee bit too loosely), I don't feel too guilty recommending you spend the extra $25.

And even though you didn't ask, it goes against my nature not to discuss footwear in a situation such as this. Were I you, assuming you don't mind a little added height, I'd go with a strappy gold/neutral stiletto sandal or a caramel brown peeptoe, depending on how formal the event.

I can't promise, however, that if you follow my suggestions and wear this dress accompanied by either pair of these shoes you won't be pulled aside by the mother of a crying bride and find yourself accused of breaking the golden rule of wedding guest etiquette better known as "Don't look better than the bride."

The story of my life, that confrontation...

If I had a sugar daddy...

Lorelei dress by Diane von Furstenberg
$425 at saks.com

Spring Essentials (pt.II): the trench and the wrap dress

Those of you who know me and know the way I dress probably read my list of 'Spring Essentials' from yesterday and thought I'd finally crossed the line from objective advice giver to shameless self-promoter.

True, all of the 10 items are items on which I presently rely on a daily basis to achieve my undeniable Spring glow, but that should be viewed less as you-should-have-a-patterned-wrap-dress-because-I-have-a-patterned-wrap-dress and more as you-should-have-a-patterned-wrap-dress-because-every-woman-should-have-a-patterned-wrap-dress. For each of the enumerated 10 essentials, there is at least one very good justification for their inclusion on my exclusive list.

To find out what they are, keep reading every day for the next five days. Yes, that's right, I'm dragging this out until Thursday. With the weather the way it is, it's not like we can wear any of this in the next few days, anyway.

The first two on my list of this Spring's 10 Essential pieces:

A mid-length khaki trenchcoat
From mid-Spring to mid-Fall, a mid-length khaki trench is going to be your go-to piece of outerwear more than any other jacket, coat, capelet or fur shrug in your hall closet. This coat, if fitted properly and cinched tightly at the waist, can take you from boring Ann-Taylor-clad office girl to sophisticated, how-does-her-supervisor-get-any-work-down-with-her-around? office girl. Not only does khaki complement every color from ivory to black to red to metallics, but it also lends its wearer the opportunity to exude the I-wish-I-could-pull-that-off brand of dressy and casual in the same outfit. Some of the fanciest Donna Karan evening gowns and Giuseppe Zanotti sandals look best when paired not with a Dennis Basso chinchilla coat but a thrown-on, this-ol'-thing short khaki trench. It's that perfect coupling of luxe and practicality that fine, won't fool anyone into thinking you're more the latter than the former, but at least provides you and your friends great pre-theater conversation over crudites and Riesling.

Recommended trenches:
1. Gryphon 'Hitchcock' trench ($590 at activeendeavors.com)

2. Burberry short trench ($945 at burberry.com)

3. Ben Sherman 'Farah' trench ($119 at urbanoutfitters.com)

4. Soia & Kyo asymmetric trench* ($195 at nordstrom.com)

5. Gryphon 'Timeless' trench ($660 at scoopnyc.com)

6. Nine West piped cotton trench ($190 at macys.com)

7. Juicy Couture 3/4 sleeve trench ($350 at bloomingdales.com)

8. Michael Kors double-breasted trench ($96 at bluefly.com)

*shown above right

A patterned wrap dress

I don't have much more to write here that I haven't already written in countless other posts on the sheer worth-it value of DvF wrap dress.

Beyond their highest quality, liquid-draping silk jersey, beyond their universally-flattering silhouettes that make every size between 0 and 16 look their curviest and smallest-waisted, beyond their can't-get-'em-anywhere-else colorful vintage prints, the DvF wrap dress is what so few items in your closet aren't -- eternally versatile.

This is a dress that can go to work, go to church, go on a date, go to a cocktail party and go to wedding with the assured guarantee you'll be the best dressed chick in attendance. Counting the bride.

I've tried other less and more expensive wrap dresses in the four years since I've discovered this style and nothing compares, nothing even comes close to Diane's architectural designs and prints. I understand their price is a serious barrier to entry for most working girls - do I ever - but I also know just how smart an investment they are. My precious collection of three are worth far more in usefulness than my pricier satin/knit mini, vintage cocktail dress and premium denim collections combined. Not only do I get more use out of them but I can also dramatically change up their looks with a different pair of shoes, alternate jewelry and makeup more easily than I can the others. What's so great about DvF prints is that hidden in their busy, bright zigzag and geometric prints are practical colors, or at least one practical color like black, white, red or chocolate brown around which you can accessorize with items already in your possession.

Recommended wrapdresses:

1. DvF 'Jessica' wrapdress ($345 at nordstrom.com)

2. DvF 'Taurus' wrapdress ($207 at bluefly.com)

3. DvF 'Kye' wrapdress ($325 at shopbop.com)*

4. Merona Asian floral wrapdress ($24.99 at target.com)

5. Calvin Klein printed-bodice wrapdress ($148 at macys.com)

6. DvF 'Cassidy' wrapdress ($285 at bloomingdales.com)

7. DvF 'Polly Dee' wrapdress ($224 at neimanmarcus.com)

*shown above right

Check in tomorrow to see why I think a short-sleeved tailored white oxford shirt and a non-denim, non-khaki pair of dress shorts are much-needed additions to your Spring wardrobe.

Until then, enjoy a picture of Montesquieu daydreaming about his mother...

"Johanna, there'll be others."

As I've mentioned here before, without fail, my father's first in-private reaction to meeting my new boyfriends has always consisted of the same four words: "Johanna, there'll be others."

Didn't matter if they were a still-hanging-out-with-high-school-kids community college burnout, an Ivy League educated World Champion rower, a kind-hearted bi-curious Hawaiian getting his Ph.D. in biophysics, a soap-opera-haired lobbyist two years my junior earning four times my salary, or the man over whom I'm still very much torn - the one who holds dear the Cherry Bowl, the one who properly introduced me to the glory of Manhattan (the seared foie gras at Picholine, in particular), the one who inspired me to finally pursue my two true passions: fashion and self-promotion.

All good men in their own rites, all thoughtfully dismissed by the one person whose opinion means more to me than even my own.

And so far, he's been right. Even on this last one, unfortunately.

This morning, during my familiar four block jaunt down M Street to work, listening to my freshly downloaded "The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore" (James Morrison), I saw yet another beautiful size-four with shiny hair, moisturized skin, runner's legs and an elegant heel-walk wearing the Diane von Furstenberg navy and white Gingko print 'Jessica' wrapdress that after three fruitless months of pining for its silk jersey softness and dress-it-up-or-down versatility, I still can't put out of my mind. I visit her often at nordstrom.com and Betsy Fisher, even wrapping her Japanese flowers around me when I'm feeling especially low, but inevitably the time comes when I have to accept the cold hard truth that $345-plus-tax is much more smartly spent on running shoes and under-eye concealer for me and untainted gourmet dog food and boutique health insurance for Montesquieu. That's the right thing to do, my friends and family tell me. Budget, necessities, and function, not excess, luxury and fashion. Most of the time I'm fine with this more mature, more responsible lifestyle, but when something's right there, when it's only a few budget cuts and twists of Sugar Daddy fate within reach, the pain compounds exponentially.

But just as it does with a man you meet unexpectedly at a red light intersection on a warm May afternoon, the most powerful and perfect love you feel for that one cocktail dress, that one pair of peeptoes or that one incredible twill coat can hit you so hard and so suddenly you'll never be able to satisfactorily explain the why or the how. It just is.

As I came to 17th and M, I smiled at the likely prospect every time I enter a vintage store for the rest of my life, I'll unconsciously search for those items that eluded me in my younger, more fiscally conservative years. It's the clothing equivalent of Google-ing the former boyfriend you now realize you should've held onto more tightly but didn't. With clothes, as opposed to lovers, you have a much higher probability of remedying past wrongs in ways that don't involve skulking around your own city and paying for expensive dinners with cash. And that's a very good thing.

As I passed another of my steadfast but more than slightly out-of-reach unrequited loves, the Burberry short trench, always there on the corner of ConnAve/M behind the shiny glass reminding me in its reflection, "Yes, your makeup, bangs and legs do look good today, but that doesn't change the fact you can't have me," I began to think about my Dad's theory on love.

"Johanna, there'll be others."

Crossing ConnAve and walking the twenty or so steps up to my building, I repeated those four words under my breath several times, unconvinced and confused, wondering why I've always been able to believe him when it comes to men - this last one, aside - but never to clothing.

By admitting a predisposition for forging deeper, longer-lasting attachments to fine leather, unique necklines and rosette-detailing than to human beings, I believe I've reached a new height, the zenith perhaps, of superficiality.

Either that, or I've yet to meet the available Ernest Hemingway to my Marlene Dietrich who'll rock my world and make me forget my insatiable desire for all things pretty, mini and DVF.

I'll consider both theories while I go now and grace ConnAve with my toned-calves-and-peeptoes presence...

What will they expect at my age?

Cusp is a new, very high-end, very fashion-forward boutique that opened two weekends ago in the heart of Georgetown's uppermost upper-crust.

Though I went through a significant amount of trouble to wrangle an invitation to attend its champagne opening, I decided at the last minute, Bay Dayliner performance notwithstanding, to go for a run and watch a documentary on the rather creepy phenomenon of Purity Balls instead.

Why, you ask, would I so easily pass up this opportunity to mingle with women who love fabrics, cuts and Marc Jacobs tops as much as I do? Well, to be frank, I really wanted to see this documentary, and since my Tivo was already committed to another program, I had to be home to see it. Also, it would have been too painful in light of my new resolution to differentiate between that's-cute-and-I-want-it and that's-cute-and-I-need-it. Apparently, making that distinction and acting accordingly - i.e. only buying that which falls into the latter category - is something someone in my financial position should have learned years ago.

Cusp, unfortunately, doesn't carry a single item of clothing, accessory or beauty product, from their Milly eyelet mini to their Christian Louboutin patent-leather t-strap stilettos to their fast-dwindling collection of Chanel Vernis 'Black Ceramic' nail lacquer that isn't (a) cute (b) something I want and (c) not something I need. In fact, if you visit their blog, you'll see that for even the most casual outfits, following their recommendations will set you back $1300.

It's one thing to look longingly at these items in Harper's Bazaar or to covet them online, enlarging their pictures, gazing at them from every possible angle and in every available color, but it is quite another to physically enter through those two-story glass doors and surround yourself not only with every top, bottom, coat and shoe you could ever want but with people who can afford to just drop $444 on a black and blue Alice + Olivia sequined tank mini for no other reason than they saw Sarah Jessica Parker wear it to a charity event last week and the sparkles somehow made her pony-face look less pony-like.

Despite my reservations, I decided today, while I was in the neighborhood helping L find an ensemble fit for a Kennedy Center ballet opening, I would face my demons and just go inside.

So I did. And it was even better and even worse than I knew it would be.

Better was the selection and the spectacular quality of the DVF wrap dress collection, the Rebecca Taylor blouses with perfectly constructed sleeves and unique necklines and the bounty of Kiehl's products resting in what looked more like an armoire you'd find in a French castle than a toiletry display-case.

Worse was the clientele. Way worse.

Like a starstruck Midwesterner walking up Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills, I wove through the by-designer sections recognizing celebrity after "Sugar Daddy" celebrity. Everything was so beautiful, so well-crafted, so elegantly displayed. There were definitely items I didn't like, many I couldn't imagine wearing much less paying an entire month's rent for, but I still appreciated the aesthetic layout and loft-esque feel of the space. Had I not overheard the following conversation, I probably would've stayed a few minutes longer, shot a maybe-we'll-meet-again smile at my Catherine Malandrino wishlist dress and been on my way.

"Those are super cute. Super you, you know? You should get them."

"Yeah, I know, but they're like, not the ideal shade of pink for my dress, and I didn't get a Cavalli for nothing, you know? I have to get the right shoes or else it's not even worth going."

"How about these?" another girl, this one wearing a Sidwell Friends Crew jacket (a prominent private DC high school), asked her friend.

"Shut up, Lauren, those are hideous," the Cavalli-girl said in a shrill tone, "what are they, Nine West? This is prom, not a graduation party." And with that, she tossed the gold python Manolo Blahnik 'Ayers' strap sandals ($745 at neimanmarcus.com) to the hardwood floor as carelessly as she would a dirty tissue.

As soon as I shook the shock that anyone - especially someone so many years younger than I was - would treat such a lovely not to mention expensive pair of shoes so shabbily, something else hit me. Did she say "prom?" These girls were shopping at my fashion Mecca trying on and nonchalantly dismissing Manolos for prom? I looked around for an adult, some sort of parental figure, an immigrant nanny, anyone, but came up empty. These girls were alone, I realized, which meant they would be the ones signing the four-figure dotted lines. I looked at each one, there were five or six, and all of them had on premium jeans and designer shoes, and a couple of them even carried this butter-soft Kooba handbag ($635 at pinkmascara.com).

"Whatever, I'm just gonna go with these (picking up the first pair, ironically, also Manolos), try them on with my dress at home, and if I don't like the way they look, I'll just wear 'em with jeans and a cute top or something."

"That's totally what I would do," the insufferable sycophant on her left said, nodding vigorously, "Totally."

The two got up and started to walk to the front to charge their wares - which, in addition to these Manolos , included a pile of DVF, Twinkle and Milly that had been sitting next to them on the floor - when they realized they'd left their other shopping bags behind on the for-trying-on-shoes-only divan.

"We are such retards. We like, always forget, don't we?" one giggled to the other as they each snatched up their sizable Barney's Co-op, Kate Spade, Ralph Lauren and Intermix bags. "You're the retard," the Cavalli-girl whipped back in a tone I would never use with a friend, "you got your dress in DC."

As I walked instead of cabbing the 14 blocks back to my apartment in the grazing rain - a tidy savings of $8.80 plus tip - I couldn't decide for whom I felt more pity -- the girls themselves for having been raised with Black AmEx expectations, or the future husbands who would likely have to explain to them the concept of a lifestyle downgrade.

Don't punish the outfit.

Choosing an outfit for a date is a complicated task made even more complicated by the potential for positive/negative permanent clothing association.

Whether the debut of your black satin halter with keyhole back and ruffle-front was privy to an evening of Christian conservative ideas on how women aren't biologically fit to be brain surgeons or your 3/4-sleeve wrap dress and platform peeptoes had to sit in the presence of a man in frayed jeans and flip-flops who spent what seemed like the entire evening speaking to his mother with a tone of voice just slightly too intimate for your taste, whatever the case, no matter how long, how offensive, how young or how much of a Democrat your date proves to be, the establishment of a permanent clothing association - especially with a piece you truly love - directly threatens that relationship which is most important in a single woman's daily life: her relationship with her clothes.

My gold Grecian-style shift, my green chiffon summer slip dress, even my ivory lace and mesh boyshorts -- all of these smack of one man and of one put-in-the-past-against-my-will relationship. For weeks, I couldn't even look at them. Some of them I still can't bring myself to wear. Pushed to the way-back of their color-coded sections, each item - and there were many, many more than just the three I mentioned - each item elicited a powerful memory, all of which were positive. Too positive. Too him.

This is another set of circumstances where the wealthy have a clear advantage. A lobbyist soiled your halter with his Evangelical venom? Another lobbyist tainted your DvF with his unkempt feet and Norman Bates persona? The assured but now gone love of your life escorted you hand-in-hand through Manhattan's corridors in your ivory pouf-sleeved knit mini? Throw 'em out and buy new ones. Buy better ones. Buy ones that don't have ingrained in their fibers the memories or smells of men past.

Do you honestly think Vivian could have brought herself to ever wear that red off-the-shoulder ballgown again if Edward hadn't listened to his heart, rescued her and allowed her to rescue him right back?

The answer, of course, a resounding "no."

Until I have a bank account able to facilitate regular wardrobe rotation replacements, however, I have no choice but to either pare down my ensemble options or simply adopt a "don't punish the outfit" attitude.

At present, like my politics, I fall somewhere in the middle.

Since I don't (yet)

Antoinette wrapdress by Diane von Furstenberg
$182.50 at shopbop.com

Wardrobe staple alert

You must follow my lead and invest as quickly as you can in the sure-to-be-worn-multiple-times-a-week, slight-pouf, cap-sleeved silk button up from Ann Taylor I discovered yesterday after work. It comes in three colors, only one of which - creamy ivory - however, is worth your $68. The others - dusty rose and lavender - are sobering reminders of why Ann Taylor is, has been, and always will be a more-for-Mom kind of store.

Even so, sometimes, like yesterday, when I brave the bitchy, tired looks from the over-45 crowd with their uncared for split ends and three-inch cuffed, high-waisted-but-not-in-a-good-way poly-blend trousers, I can find wardrobe staples so powerfully versatile and so powerfully me they shake the very foundation of my outfit rotation.

Unlike similar silk cap-sleeve oxfords I've tried on over the past four months at Banana Republic, Barney's Co-op, Club Monaco, Nordstrom and various vintage boutiques, this AT blouse is tailored in such a way that when I tucked it into my DVF Marple skirt this morning on my very first try, I didn't have a single side pucker or errant material jut. It slid in as quickly and cleanly as...well, let's just say it was a good moment.

Not before this morning has it ever happened that I can't decide what to wear because I have too many favorable options. Usually, it's the case that something isn't dry-cleaned, something isn't ironed, or something was tragically left behind in a hurried 3am departure from an adjacent-to-the-White-House five-star.

But not today.

Today, doing my best back-when-she-was-hot Elisabeth Shue impression standing in front of my closet in nothing but every woman's first, second and third order wardrobe components (i.e. peep-toes, bra and Brazilian Tangas), I couldn't decide among my new blouse and wide-legged black trousers, my new blouse and an at-the-waist black pencil skirt, my new blouse and an at-the-waist chocolate brown pencil skirt, my new blouse and dressy black bermudas, and so on. Finally, I turned to the fashion sage that is my 19 month old Jack Russell pup, and gave him a look that plainly said, "help."

Understanding the gravity of the time crunch his mother was under, the 13-pound style soldier pivoted on his back left paw, strode over to the row of below-the-waist items laid out on our bed, and after a few minutes of silent thought, he honed in on the black Marple skirt. Turning to me, he gave a subtle nod that indicated his decision had been made, and after kissing the paw in gratitude, I slipped on my favorite designer's silk jersey bow-accented masterpiece and was on my way.

I would provide you with a picture of my new discovery, but unfortunately, it's so new, so reasonably-priced and so fabulous, it's not yet listed on Ann Taylor's website. In case you're confused about what the style of this shirt looks like, this Banana Republic one comes pretty close, but as you might recall I discussed at length in a previous posting, that even when I tried this top on three clicks above my normal size, the fit across the chest made me look almost as unfortunate as the keyhole disaster that was Sela Ward at the 2002 Golden Globes.

My advice to you is to skip that trip to Cosi today, heck, skip lunch altogether, and head straight for the AT nearest your office. For those few of you who don't already know, the mirror rewards those with rumbly stomachs. And think of it this way, the $8-10 you don't spend on the Gorgonzola-filled salad and piece of side bread you don't really need, anyway, can be better invested in shoes, accessories, and appetite suppressants like gum and caffeinated beverages.

Diet caffeinated beverages.

It was bound to happen.

I saw her as I side-stepped around the third or fourth rapidly melting ice block on M St. in between 15th and 16th. Though I wasn't wearing my glasses, I was able to make out a woman - a woman with a pretty spectacular figure - in the not-too-far distance who, evidenced by her bare legs, lightweight trench, and I'm-having-a-pretty-day expression, had made the decision this morning that today was the day she would push aside the wool, the velvet and the tweed and liberate the silk blends, linens, and thin merinos she'd orderly tucked away in Rubbermaid vacuum-packed storage boxes above her shelves and under her bed.

We were walking toward each other, the distance between us shortening with every click of my chocolate brown suede peeptoes with bronze piping and every seasoned stride she took in her caramel matte leather almond-toed pumps. Though we'd never met before and we weren't about to turn off our iPods and meet today, there was an unspoken understanding, one over-confident woman to another, that we would exchange polite half-smiles and shoot each other "nice outfit" glances.

Just as my near-sightedness no longer hindered me from taking in this size 4, 5'9" brunette with slim hips, athletic calves and honey highlights, I saw in perfect 20/20 a familiar blue and white floral print peeking out from under her 3/4 trench.

"It couldn't be," I said in a half-whisper, "Not a DC girl," my eyes involuntarily filling with fear, jealousy and confusion.

But it was. And her packed lunch and New Balance 992s slung over her daybag didn't lie -- she was a DC girl.

There's a first for everything, and this morning, I learned this lesson the hard way. Draped on a stunning frame and coming straight at me was the current top placeholder on my wish list: the 'Jessica' wrapdress in large scattered Gingko print by Diane von Furstenburg ($345 at nordstrom.com). And to my chagrin, even with a coat on, I could tell this young woman looked good in it. Really good. Potentially better than even I would look in it.

Potentially.

Unfortunately, I was not able to regain my composure in time to feign a you-look-good-but-so-do-I smile. She knew it - as I would have - that somewhere between passing the portly woman with a buzzcut and fuchsia stirrup pants and the man listening to "Making love out of nothing at all" so loudly you heard the song before you smelled his Axe body spray, the balance had tipped in her favor. What we both assumed would be an equal admiration exchange had turned into her victory.

As you might expect, as soon as she was a safe distance behind me (yes, I looked back at her - twice), I switched from Destiny's Child ("Bootylicious") to Fiona Apple ("Oh well") and shot a face full of sulk to every passerby for the remaining two blocks.

I hadn't experienced a defeat for which I was this unprepared since I was 12 when I was forced to relinquish my Spelling Bee crown.

And for the record, I'm still convinced the moderator said "flamingo," not "flamenco."