the changing room

It was a hot weekend and we had a wedding to go to. Rather than sweat all the way to the hotel in our pretty dresses and three-piece suits, we decided to leave it for the last minute and change when we arrived.

We parked in a dim garage that was pretty empty (luckily for us) and spent a few minutes fixing hair and donning our satin and heels. Ours was a hippie changing room, reminiscent of silent-film-era movies when all the action is sped up. Cars rolled slowly by, their passengers giggling at these girls and boys madly changing out of their summer shorts into fancy suits and cocktail dresses. We used our Volkswagon pop-top camper to change, and we even had our dog.

At one point we took out a folding camper chair so I could apply my sister's makeup. An older gentleman walked by and chuckled. He teased the dog, who was watching patiently. I could almost hear him shaking his head, saying, "Silly hippie kids" and reminiscing about his past as the boy in the boxer shorts standing behind the van, pulling on his suit trousers, and knotting his tie.