Mixed Metaphor

Taking a journey into flash fiction today...

“That dress fits you like a mitten.”

My mother’s comment stops me in mid-twirl. We’re the only two women in the open area of the dressing room. I turn away from my reflection in the three-way mirror to ask her what she means.

“I mean what I say,” she states. “It fits you like a mitten.”

I turn back to the mirror. The dress is long and red and clingy, a departure from my usual flowy style. I like it. I’m ready to try something new at this stage of my life, one punctuated by a series of recent advancements: new decade, new marital status, new me.

Same mother, though, with a remark that sounds innocent enough but sends me into analysis mode, just like it did when I was fifteen. Maybe she’s complimenting me, although how a summer dress can be compared to a mitten in a way that’s flattering is a mystery. I examine myself, conscious of every little flaw highlighted by a dress to which I was ready to pledge my eternal love just minutes ago. What was previously form-fitting is now tight. A color that I thought was fun and flirty now strikes me as garish and gaudy.

Maybe my mother mixed up her words. She’s not as young as she used to be; it wouldn’t be the first malapropism she’s directed at me.

“You mean, it fits like a glove?” I ask hopefully.

“No, I know what I mean,” she retorts. “It fits you like a mitten. It’s bulky and clumsy and I can’t imagine you’d actually be able to do anything while wearing it.”

I’m stunned into silence.

Before I say something regrettable, I whip back into the curtained area and change quickly into the safety of my own clothes. Leaving the dress hanging on the hook on the wall, I rush past my mother out of the dressing room. I’m almost at the store’s exit before she catches up with me.

“You’re not getting it?”