-i Frivolous Dress | Order The Meal-

Not a typo. A manifesto.

So yes: I frivolous dress order the meal.

I sat down across from someone who had already decided what we would eat. He had the menu in his hands—the way men do, as if it were a treasure map and they the only cartographers. “The octopus,” he began, “is excellent here.” -I frivolous dress order the meal-

Last Tuesday, I walked into a restaurant wearing a dress that had no business making decisions. It was sage green, backless, with a skirt that started its sentence somewhere around my ribs and finished with a whisper just above the knee. A frivolous dress. The kind you buy after one glass of Sancerre, thinking, When? and the dress answers, Tonight.

The man across from me closed his menu. He looked at the dress. He looked at me inside the dress. And then he did something remarkable: he laughed. “Apparently, we are.” Not a typo

But my dress had other plans.

By A. E. Stedman

There is a forgotten verb tense in the language of women: the frivolous imperative. It lives not in textbooks but in the soft slide of silk over a clavicle, the decisive click of a heel, the way a sleeve falls just so when you point at a wine list.

Let me explain.