But no new dress.
Yes, I am that shallow.
As a child, Easter was synonymous with a new dress. Christmas might be a new outfit, pants and a jacket, skirt and blouse; back to school just meant another long year in a stupid plaid jumper. But Easter, grand, spring-infused Easter, meant a new dress. Something light, bright, floaty, flowery or lacy. Usually made by my mother, sometimes, if it was a good year, store bought from PN Hirsch or Kmart. Not that I was much of a dressy girl. Mostly I preferred pants and pullovers to pinafores. Easter, however, was a different story. Slipping into that new dress on Easter morning was like a transformation, my own private resurrection. No longer was I the dumpy, dirty blonde kid from the sticks. Every year that Easter dress turned me into Judy Garland, Eve Plumb and Angela Cartwright all rolled into one.
Throughout the years, I kept up the tradition. Whether from a tony specialty store's sale rack or my favorite second hand shop, a new dress for Easter was a must. This year I did not find one. Several went into the dressing room, none were "the" dress. My frugality got the best of me, not wanting to spend the cash unless it was "the" dress, so I passed on them all. Now I wish I'd brought home the little cotton orange floral number that I thought made me look too much like an extra on the set of Mad Men.
Lesson leaned. Some things are worth the money, especially when tied so closely to your heart.