I don’t know why we’re doing this,” Mallory protested, sounding just slightly irritated, probably because she was hungry.

“Do we have to go over it again?” I replied. “You know as well as I do that this relationship has hit a wall. It’s stopped dead in its tracks…practically dead, flatlined. Too much stress, too much distraction, too much discomfort, and not enough of, well…us,” I concluded.

“Well, if you ask me, this all seems like a waste of money. So we go and buy a dress…so what? There’s no place to wear it,” Mallory argued, still not on board and not seeing the long-term picture.

“I’ll take care of the ‘No place to wear the dress’ issue,” I replied. “All you have to do is wear it and try to enjoy yourself.”

“There are other things we could throw money away on, you know. Like a new bed, the leaking plumbing, or the singing refrigerator. There are all kinds of better things to throw money at,” she said, justifiably objecting.

“Oh, I can’t argue with that. You’re absolutely right,” I began. “However, from now on, ‘We’ and beyond that, ‘You’ are something of a different kind of priority. We simply have to restore your…” I struggled for the correct words. “Your self-esteem,” I said. “We need to help you rediscover and resuscitate that part of you that’s hibernating.”

“You always say that, and you make it seem like it’s my fault,” she said defensively, sounding hurt.

I grabbed her hand and looked into her big blue eyes. “Well, I don’t think this is a ‘fault’ or ‘blame’ situation. Nature dealt our relationship a lousy hand, and we can either work with it or quit,” I said, trying to more accurately describe things as I saw them. “And, I’m not a quitter, at least not when you’re at stake. All you accomplish by quitting is giving someone else the opportunity to win.”

“We’ve had this same talk a dozen times before, and we always just end up in the same place,” she replied, sounding as if we were defeated before we even began.

“That's true, but if you don’t allow yourself to consider or explore other options…if you don’t step out of your box, then you are certain to always end up in the same place simply because you haven’t given yourself anywhere else to go,” I answered. 

“I don’t even know what you mean,” she replied. “What ‘other options’?” she answered, sounding frustrated and apprehensive.

“The 'options' are whatever we, as a couple, decide that they are. There just has to be something, some notion, some idea, some…something,” I added, sounding desperate. “I just refuse to accept that that part of you is dead and gone,” I replied, repeating what I’d said a thousand times before. “So, let’s try and wake up that sleeping libido of yours,” I suggested.

“And just how are we supposed to do that?” she answered, sounding skeptical, like it had all been tried before.

“Well, I think that the best way to wake someone up is a little bit at a time. You don’t throw a bucket of water on them. You nudge them and get them to come around slowly,” I suggested as we finally arrived at the mall. I walked around and opened her door as per usual.

“This didn’t happen to us all at once. It took time, years even, to get to where we are now. And where is that? Distant, irritated, shut off, shut down, shut out…all the required elements and conditions for a failed relationship,” I declared, protesting. “And our current living situation? Holy crap. That isn’t in any way helping to reignite our intimate relationship. You can’t really be intimate or romantic when you have someone clearing their throat and snapping their fingers incessantly 8 feet away from your bed,” I added, growing agitated.

Mallory laughed at the pure absurdity and truth of the situation. What else could a person do?

“So, I think, little steps make the most sense,” I said, taking her hand. “We’re going to start nudging you,” I concluded. “We’re going to make you feel more attractive, more sensual, more desirable, all that stuff. We’re going to sort out our living arrangement and get back onto the track we’re supposed to be on. I’m not going to get stuck on the path life has put before me,” I said, beginning to rant.

“And you think it starts with a sexy dress?” she replied.

“It has to begin somewhere,” I replied as we walked toward the main entrance. “It’s easy for me. All I have to do is help you pick out a dress and find somewhere appropriate to take you in this new dress. You have the hard job,” I replied.

“How is it that I have the hard job?” she answered suspiciously.

“You have to think out of the norm and pick out a flattering, sexy dress, and then you have to wear it…that’s the hard part. No more closet liners,” I answered, laughing. “Do you remember when we first got together?” I asked.

“Sure, of course I do,” she replied.

“Remember the way people would see us together and comment or look at us with that enviable stare? And we’d joke about how their relationships had probably disintegrated over the years, and now looking at us made them jealous?”, I said, jogging her memory.

“I remember very well,” she said, kind of smiling.

“That’s because we gave off a certain vibe and a particular energy. They could see it, they could feel it. We both knew it was there. We used to talk about it,” I said, leading her to my point.

“Yep, I remember,” she recalled.

 “I feed off that energy,” I stated. “It sustains me. And that comes from this,” I said, motioning to the both of us.

“I know,” she said, exasperated. “You’ve said that before…many times.”

“The reason I keep repeating myself is because of this,” I said, setting up my point. “You just have to be aware of it. You have to connect with it.  Now, admittedly, we may be a little worse for wear and a bit removed from that, but we’re not unrecognizable from those people. If we’ve been ‘that’ couple before, then we can be that couple again. It may take some effort, some new ideas, or some open-mindedness, but what it's going to take most is presence. We have to be aware, engaged, and paying attention.”

“You say that a lot, too,” she replied as we entered the first boutique. “But I don’t see how this is supposed to solve anything.”

“Well, back then, we, you and I, were the center of that universe. Everything was new, exciting, and nothing was impossible. When we were together, that’s all there was… just us. Now I understand that the way life goes, it can’t be like that all the time, but it can be like that sometimes.”

“And a dress is going to solve all of that?” she retorted, laughing.

“One step at a time,” I countered. There’s no simple solution. “The first thing I’d like to do… the first goal is to make you a sexy girl again,” I said.

“So, you don’t think I’m a sexy girl anymore?” she quickly answered, putting her hand on her hip.

I instantly realized my mistake and corrected myself. 

“Oh shit! That came out wrong. What I meant was that we need to remind you and convince you that you’re a sexy girl.” I said, correcting myself. “Because you never believed that in the first place, and you don’t believe it now. I’ve always been and remain a believer,” I corrected.

“I know, Honey, but I still don’t see how a sexy dress is going to change anything,” she answered, looking at the racks of dresses.

“I don’t anticipate a dress, a shirt, or shoes to change anything. What has to be altered is your self-image. You’re hot, period. Always have been. I know it. Complete strangers know it. You used to give that energy off by the bucketful,” I said quietly as we looked at dresses.

“That’s sweet of you to say, Honey, and I know you think that’s true, but I don’t feel that way, not before or now,” she replied.

“I know, I know, and now it’s my turn to say, 'I’ve heard that before,” I replied teasingly. “But regardless, I do think it’s real, and I just don’t think you want to accept that or even acknowledge that it exists. There’s always room for change and maybe a little adventure.”

“Okay, maybe, and I said maybe it did once, but not so much anymore,” she said, looking at a little black dress. “This is kind of cute,” she remarked, holding up the dress.

“Well, that’s exactly what I intend to disprove,” I replied. “I’m going to show you that you and a sexy little dress can still turn heads and break necks,” I vowed. “And yes, that’s cute, but not cute enough. It’s too commonplace,” I answered.

“I’m not wearing some outrageously sexy dress out in public to impress the rabble and make a fool of myself,” she countered. 

“No, no…we’re going to go somewhere elegant, somewhere fancy. I want you to see that you can still captivate the attention of the sophisticated crowd,” I suggested. 

“Really?” you answered skeptically. “And just where might that be?” she added, sounding the tiniest bit intrigued.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “It has to be special, and so does the dress, and I don’t think we’re going to find it here.”

“Let’s go look at Dillard’s,” Mallory suggested. “They seem to have some better choices for this kind of dress, even if I’m not sure what kind of dress that is.”

“We’re looking for sexy, alluring…not slutty,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t do slutty anyway,” Mallory confirmed.

“You’re not the slutty type, and that’s just fine with me. It would look forced, and that’s not what we’re going for,” I said as we entered Dillard's.

“And just what ‘type’ am I?” she asked inquisitively.

“Oh, that’s easy. You’re the ‘innocent’ type,” I said. “You’re the pretty, sexy, quiet one in the corner of the room. You’re the one whose mouth says ‘no’ and whose eyes say ‘maybe’,” I added, kind of laughing.

“So I’m a tease? she replied as we arrived at the section with the better dresses.

“No, no…a tease does that deliberately out of manipulation or something. It’s usually just an act. But you’re genuine. You’re the shy, innocent little wildcat. You are possibilities.” I explained.

She laughed, “Oh yeah, that’s me alright,” she retorted. 

“No, really,” I said, kind of laughing along with her. “When you decide to relax and just enjoy yourself, you’re a little vixen,” I said.

“Oookay, okay,” Mallory replied as we departed the escalator and headed for the formal wear. “What exactly are we looking for?” she asked. “Because I really have no clue.”

“Oh…” I said, contemplating. “Something classy… maybe backless… low-cut… a slit in the skirt, but tasteful,” I answered, going down a mental checklist.

“Oh, that’ll be easy,” Mallory replied with the appropriate skepticism.

“I know. It’s a one-in-a-million thing, but it has to exist somewhere,” I said, trying not to extinguish all hope.

“Any particular color?” she asked sarcastically, knowing already how difficult this might be regardless of color.

I laughed. “We’ll just see what our options are once we find the dress,” I answered.

We looked through numerous racks of dresses, and nothing jumped out as 'The Dress' until she began sorting through the clearance rack, and there it was. It was stunningly simple in its complexity. Black, shimmering, satin with a neckline that plunged just below the breast, with the edges trimmed in black lace. The back plunged as well, practically to the top of her sublime bottom, and was made completely of lace from the shoulders down to her waist. It had long sleeves with lace cuffs and a long leg slit on the right side. A little sparkly jewelry and that would be that.

“So, what do you think?” I asked, looking for confirmation.

“I have no idea what your intentions are for this dress, but it is very sexy and elegant,” she concurred thoughtfully.

“That it is,” I agreed. “Also, the best thing we’ve seen.”

“I’m tired of looking at dresses. I’m hungry, and I need a nap,” Mallory announced, pretty much mirroring my thoughts.

“Okay, so this is it, at least for today?” I asked.

“Yep. Hold on a second, what do you mean, for today?” she inquired in return.

“Oh, we’re going to find you lots of dresses. And sexy blouses and shoes and all that stuff,” I declared. “We’re going to redefine your self-image. No more, full-time Mommy stuff. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. You can be part-time Mommy and part-time Hottie.” I said.

“What if I don’t want to be redefined?” she replied in typical, stubborn fashion.

“Then I guess I’m just going to have to force you to enjoy dressing up, going out on dates, and having fun. Sounds pretty unendurable, right? I’m certain you’re going to suffer greatly,” I remarked, teasing her, gathering up the dress and heading for the nearest checkout counter.

“Honey, you’ve got to get over it. I’m not a Hottie anymore,” Mallory replied.

“That’s what you think,” I said. "Be as stubborn as you want. And that’s what we’re going to change.”

“You’re supposed to say that,” she said. “You’re supposed to think I’m hot.”

“Well, yes and no. I get what you’re saying, but I’m not really obligated to think you’re a Hottie. But relationships are built on all kinds of different attractions, so yeah, of course I think you’re really hot,” I countered. “ But me telling you that you’re hot is like your Mom telling you that you’re pretty. I just can’t possibly have the same kind of impact.”

“It’s not the same thing as if someone completely random feels that way. I get it. I’m the one with the degrees, remember?” she replied.

“I know you know all that, and I know you hate it when I’m speaking like a psychologist, but that’s not really psychology. It’s just common knowledge,” I said. “Therefore, we’re going to create a social experiment,” I suggested while we were waiting to check out.

“And just why do I hate the sound of that?" she said, knowing full well how my mind works in these situations. “There’s nothing here that needs proving.”

“Ah, but there is!!” I replied excitedly. “There is! Being a Hottie or almost anything else for that matter, is based on attitude and presentation, and those two things together create fact.”

“You’ve got to be kidding?” Mallory replied, laughing.

“Okay, maybe not actual fact, but certainly, perceived fact. It’s like selling an idea,” I replied. “Hottie is a frame of mind.”

“Oh my gosh, you never give up,” she answered, exasperated. “And just why are we doing this again? This is making no sense to me,” she said as we finally got to the front of the line, reaching the cashier.

“So you can have an up-to-date idea of how the world sees you,” I responded as the cashier carefully folded the dress and placed it into a bag.

“This is a beautiful gown. It’s going to look great on you,” the cashier commented.

I turned and looked at you with a smirk and raised my eyebrows while handing the cashier the money.

Mallory just narrowed her eyes and placed a hand on her hip as our transaction was completed.

I grabbed her hand as we left the register and started heading out.

“I don’t really care how the world sees me,” Mallory commented.

“Really? So why is it that you put on make-up before we leave the house?” I replied.

“Shut up,” she retorted, laughing. “That’s not why I do it.”

“Okay. So why do you do it then?” I asked.

“It makes me feel comfortable,” she said thoughtfully. “You know, it makes me feel ‘put together’”.

“So, what you’re saying is, it’s a self-confidence kind of thing?” I suggested. “I’m starving, by the way. I just thought I’d throw that in there.”

“Good Grief, I hate it when you do the psychoanalyst thing,” she replied, sounding amused and irritated at the same time. “I know where you’re going with this,” she added. “Okay, I’ll admit that my self-confidence has taken a bit of a beating over the last couple of years. And I know that I don’t see myself the way you do… but I never have, and I probably can’t. But I’m getting older, just like you are, and that's just how it is,” she answered. “And I’m starving too.”

“Yep, you’re exactly correct, and I agree with everything you said, including being starving,” I remarked. “However…”

“There’s always a however,” she muttered.

“However,” I repeated, “It’s just like they say about fine wine. Some things actually do get better with age. Some people are blessed with the natural ability or luck or whatever to age more gracefully than we mere mortals,” I said. “Let’s find somewhere to eat.”

Mallory laughed. “So am I to understand that I’m some sort of immortal wine?”

“Maybe that didn’t create the right image,” I agreed, laughing along with her. I collected my thoughts and tried again. “Let’s say that you are representative of your age group, okay?” I began.

“Well, I am representative of my age group,” she remarked.

“Exactly,” I replied. “So that being the case, I have never seen or met one of your friends or co-workers or siblings or anyone in your age group that can hold a candle to you,” I said. “ So therefore, we can easily conclude that, regardless of relationship standing, you as a female person over 50, must be in the upper 5% of said group,” I concluded.

“That’s just confirmation bias,” Mallory concluded.

“Maybe, maybe it is. But that's what we’re going to find out,” I suggested.

“And why do I need to know this?” she asked.

“To prove my point once and for all that you’re a Hottie,” I said. “Besides, it’s simple human curiosity. And you have more than your fair share of that,” I added.

“I do not!” she protested. “I am appropriately and reasonably curious,” she added, smiling as we were led to our table.

“Ahhh… let’s just say that you like to know without anyone knowing that you know,” I said teasingly. “It’s clandestine curiosity.”

She just laughed and shook her head as we walked into the restaurant.

We were shown to a little booth, and we sat down, both straining to see the menu in the diminished light.

“I’ll bet it will take less than 10 minutes”, I remarked, knowing full well that Mallory would know what I was referencing. 

“You’re crazy. There’s no way anything would happen,” she replied, maintaining her stance as a disbeliever. 

“Oh, I’m certain it would and probably quicker than you think. You’re a Hottie. I see how other men look at you,” I said, acknowledging what was obvious to me. 

“That's just ridiculous. It’s just what you think, besides, I’d never do it anyway”, she remarked.

“All it would take is the right dress, and there’d be men circling you like dogs after a bone.”

“That’s crazy. You’re only saying that because you love me. Not every man sees me that way,” Mallory replied, not anywhere near convinced.

“Well, you’re right. I do love you, and not every man sees you the way I do. But I’ll bet a lot more do than you think or are willing to admit.”

“Nope. You’re wrong,” was her animated reply.

“Well, I disagree. As a matter of fact, I’m willing to bet on it.”

“Bet? Bet what?” she answered. 

"Whatever you like,” I replied, thinking for a moment. "How about this: We'll go to dinner downtown, and if you win, we'll stay the night in a luxurious suite downtown."

"And if I lose?” Mallory rebutted, sounding interested.

"Then I get to choose your manner of dress, every time we go out for a month, no questions, no objections, no arguments,” I answered, setting the parameters of the bet.

“Hmmm," Mallory muttered. "You know what? It's a bet."