In some personal news, I recently went to Target on a crusade to find an outfit for work.
I did not realize I would encounter the actual First Crusade, but here we are.
A bit crestfallen after seeing all the neon onesies, I turned to leave when…
ALAS! Just past the crop tops, all my burlap dreams came true.
Was it a purse? No.
Was it a hat? Also no.
It was a sea of mannequins dressed as the peasants from Les Miserable.
“What in the women’s suffrage is going on here?” I thought to myself.
I’m not entirely sure if what happened next was a hallucination, but I swear a mannequin whispered, “help me,” as I walked by. Undeterred, I grabbed a floral phenomenon and held it to my chest.
“You look like you’re going to the pumpkin patch,” my daughter said.
“That means I’m doing it right,” I replied and proceeded to check out.
My anticipation was burning hotter than the card in my wallet, a card ready to be swiped like cargo from a Revolutionary Warship. For, I knew this practical dress would be Paul Revere approved.
As such, I was unable to wait until I got home to change, so I stopped in the family restroom.
“This is the first day of the rest of my life,” I thought as slid out of my current, colorful clothes.
Well, you can imagine my complete consternation when, as I put on the apron-inspired dress, rolling pins appeared in my purse and I immediately lost the right to vote.
I was shook, befuddled, lost…in a world I no longer recognized.
Maybe it was the fifty-eleven buttons tightening my collar, but I couldn’t breathe. All ability to reason and form autonomous thoughts swiftly escaped me faster than the ink drying on the Declaration of Independence.
“Quick, Sarahbeth!! Fetch the horse and buggy!” I ordered my daughter.
“My name is Sutton and you drive an Infiniti,” she sighed.
Then, in an effort to mitigate the severity of my emotional damages, my son offered to do a photoshoot. Because that would surely lift the burden of a maiden fresh off the Mayflower. #InfluencerAlert
“God bless you, Jedidiah – I mean, Grayson,” I thanked him, silently sizing up his ability to maneuver a donkey and plow a field.
Next, I did what anyone in my shoes would do and began my pilgrimage to Oklahoma’s historic Overholser Mansion, built by my alleged ancestors before statehood in 1903.
The ghosts were beckoning not I, but the dress. And, upon arrival, I’m fairly certain I saw the butler wink at me from the third-story window. #SendSage
By the grace of God and Starbucks, I survived this confusing time. My children? Well, they’re scarred for life. (All donations to their continued therapy can be made at the GoFundMe link below).
As sure as cornbread is dry, and as sure as the winter is long, I can tell you with confidence that this is not the dress I needed.
Nor is it the dress I deserved.
I forgot where I was going with this.
Just know it’s the dress that united us all, just as the bless-ed pilgrims would want.
I may have lost my dignity that day in the Target aisle, but I gained a chicken farm and the ability to knit.
And that’s a gift we can all appreciate in 2021.
Onward and upward,