The Thing About Polka Dots

Hello, tender friends!

The thing about polka dots is this: they can feel lucky.

In Valencia in 2007, I crossed the palm-lined avenues to my dorm with my suite mates. I still had sand stuck to my legs from walking on the beach with them, where we watched sailboats crawl along the horizon. Our dorm was blocks from the Mediterranean sea, and for six months, we pinched ourselves, wondering if everything we saw every day was real.

My suite mates were going to lunch, but I’d already eaten. So I slid over the smooth granite floors to the elevator and up to a (male) friend’s suite. As I walked inside, I slipped a polka dot shirt with short princess sleeves over my bathing suit.

In the suite, I locked eyes with my crush, who lived with my friend. Overwhelmed, I looked away. When I gathered the courage to look back, his eyes were still waiting for mine.

I looked away again, but my bashfulness must have charmed him. After months of thinking he would never go for me because his ex-girlfriend was the kind of pretty that intimidated everyone, he did. We danced until dawn after a dorm party one night, then clung to each other like lobsters for the months until I returned to the United States.

After graduating, I moved to Barcelona, his home town. I dreamed of reliving our Valencia days.

Spoiler alert: he ended up breaking my heart.

Afterwards, I drank the same cheap beers, and danced at all the best discotecas, but my feet never quite found the beat no matter what music the DJ played.

I went to cafes and drank wide-brimmed mugs of tea, but couldn’t stop staring at the empty chair across from me at the table. I went to all the museums, but Picasso and Dali didn’t immerse me as they once did.

Then I went shopping.

I found a black dress with white polka dots, a sweetheart neckline, and a wide red belt that snapped shut with a touch of drama at an empire waistline. I bought the dress. (And I really wish I had a picture of this dress somewhere, but I’ve lost almost everything from my years abroad).

I put the dress on with black ballet flats and walked along the harbor that afternoon. The cargo ships moved like manatees in the water, slow but purposeful. Seagulls sqwauked overhead. I pined for days I wasn’t alone. I pined for the feeling of being pretty.

When I returned to my apartment, I went to the tiny kitchen that doubled as a laundry room and that five of us, all expats from different countries, shared. My Polish roommate, Monika, and Italian roommate, Mateo, were talking.

Mateo put his arms around my waist when I walked in. “See!” he exclaimed to Monika. “Look at her! This is what a real woman looks like.” He dipped me backwards like we were dancing.When he brought me back up, he twirled me so that my skirt puffed out around me.

Monika laughed. “You know you’re not her type, Mateo.”

We all laughed. We all knew it was true.

But still, I thought maybe the polka dots had worked. Maybe a dress would be part of my healing.

I went dancing with my roommates that night. I wore the polka dot dress.

I started with a modest two step. I matched the beat.

It was a start.

You know how people always ask what advice you would give your 20-year old self? This is one of mine: buy the polka dot dress sooner.

Ok, that’s all for today tender friends! Thank you for following along, as pulling this dress out triggered these memories. Thank you for stopping by, and thank you for sharing!

You can visit the welcome page if you want to read more about how this blog got started.