The Curse of the Vintage Dresses.

I have been cursed, and I never believed in such a thing,
but trust me - it is a curse. {before I get too ahead of myself,
let me back up for one moment...}

There is a darling vintage shop in downtown Salt Lake City called Decades; this is where my friends and I like to go visit when we have a free afternoon. Whether we have saved our paychecks to buy a few things, or just twirl around the dressing rooms as if we lived in 1954, Decades is our favorite place to shop.

During one of these visits, we ended up buying each of ourselves a dress, and as soon as we left the store, we ran into the nearest bathroom to change...but it wasn't long until we started noticing something strange was going on...

Without fail, (and this is NO exaggeration) every man above the age of 50 stopped to talk; they were the all the nicest old gentlemen, but they always, without fail, stopped to talk.
every.
single.
one.
Coincidence?
Maybe...

But just the other day, as I slipped into my adorable dress from 1949, every grandma I ran into (whether it was in the elevator, check-out line or bookstore) stopped to say how darling I would look with one of their grandsons who almost always went to MIT

So, my friends, I have come to the conclusion that there is a curse to these dresses (for lack of a better word), because it really is not a curse at all - in fact, we love it more than owning a magical pair of pants that somehow fit us all.

But there is one last thing....
I still believe there is one more part of the curse, and it is this:


I was born 50 years too late.