On Obsession

My search for the manic-pixie-dream dress.

This specific subject is one I’ve simultaneously dreaded and anticipated with much delight. It makes me look pathetic and dedicated, ridiculous and, hopefully, like I own some chickens and rabbits on a commune with friends in an enchanted rural town near mountains and the ocean. This story is one of obsession, of self delusion, and of wishful thinking. I’ve lived within that triangle of madness for months—a tangled web of want. To untangle it, we must start at the beginning.

‘Twas a chilly and rainy morning in early March 2024. I had just finished a workout and was sitting on my yoga mat on my living room floor, scrolling Instagram because I didn’t want to start work quite yet. As I swiped through my friend’s and family’s posts, an ad popped up that made me actually stop and gasp. A brand I’d never heard of, called Christy Dawn (CD), advertised their “pre-Spring” styles—and I watched a willowy woman sway in the Kelly dress: a cap-sleeved, floral print, ankle-length dress with a deep-scooped neckline on both the front and back, made of 100% cotton. I could just tell it would be pricey, but I clicked on the dress anyway, hoping for the best. $298. Worse: out of stock. I threw my phone on the couch and went to shower.

There she is, in all her glory.

But the familiar feelings of obsession started to manifest. I found myself staring at the tile in my shower for minutes on end. I wanted the dress. I knew it would make me whole. I cycled through rationalizations and justifications—it’s too expensive, maybe price equals worth, it’s so cute, it might look bad on me, it’s way too expensive, maybe I can get one expensive thing per year, maybe I won’t spend any more money on clothes for a few months, it’s out of stock, you maniac. I shut off the shower and turned on my computer for work.

But my computer just gave me more opportunity to obsess. I went to CD’s website, read a bit about their policies on regenerative cotton, on using dead-stock fabrics to reduce waste, on making everything compostable. Any clothing company that claims to be sustainable or regenerative is as appealing to me as it is suspicious. The Kelly dress could help me help the world, or it could be a total sham.

I opened up new tabs: Depop, Poshmark, eBay, ThredUp, the RealReal. Perhaps it would be available for resale, therefore lowering the price and also scratching my itch for secondhand clothing (what’s better than regenerative cotton? Thrifted regenerative cotton). The Kelly dress was nowhere to be seen, which I took as a good sign. People must love it. 

I checked these websites and apps daily, sometimes more than once. At this point, I had decided I would risk the price if I found the dress through a resale app or if CD decided to restock. I could always return the dress if I didn’t love it, and I wanted to experiment with a brand like this, one so firm on their pricing, mission, and business model that they sell out almost every time they release a new collection. I had to see for myself if they could walk the walk as well as they talked the talk.

A few weeks later, CD announced their “pre-loved” collection, called Christy Dawn Regenerates, where people could sell used CD dresses on their website at discounted rates. I pored through the recycled dresses, hoping the Kelly would be available. No luck. I signed up for specialized email alerts in case it showed up. 

Are you going insane yet? When I tell you this took up so much of my thought process, I’m not lying. I’ve always had obsessive tendencies, starting—you guessed it—in my younger Mormon days. I used to be full of scruples, praying for my family members by name every night instead of just saying “my family.” I thought being specific would be the reason they literally stayed alive. Obsessive tendencies showed up in smaller ways too—like searching for matching letters on billboards and DVD cases and magazine titles (in The Ensign, for example, both words have Es, so the title “passed”), and making sure if I tapped a window with one finger, I’d tap it with all my fingers.

These obsessive thoughts could have evolved, I’m sure, but I recognized the patterns as a child and looked away if I found myself staring too long at magazine titles, or I’d force myself to walk away from the window. I have no advice—I couldn’t have named what was happening at the time and am grateful these tendencies only show up in small, manageable ways now. The obsession with the Kelly dress was real and annoying to even me, but it was also fun, and full of fake drama, and it was a way to connect with friends and family. Turns out, we all have our versions of fashion fantasies. 

I suppose the obsession comes to me in ideas now, and that’s why the Kelly dress stuck for so long: I imagined myself on picnics wearing the dress, even though I haven’t picnicked in years. I imagined myself wearing the dress in photos, running through fields of grass candidly. I imagined myself feeling cool, temperature-wise, in my regenerative cotton despite the deep heat and humidity in Washington, DC that makes me sweat in ways I’d never experienced while growing up in the dry heat of Utah. I’d be a new version of myself. Enlightened.

I prepared. I donated clothes through a CD x ThredUp collaboration, which gave me a $25 CD gift card. I saved their welcome discount code, and tested whether these things could be stacked at checkout (they could). I had leftover Christmas money I hadn’t spent, and yet another $25 gift card from winning a game. The dress would basically be free—if I could get it.

On a trip with my husband and some of his family, I checked all the resale apps as we drove. I refreshed my email, hoping for good news from the pre-loved collection. When we arrived at our hotel, I played with my nieces and nephews until we decided to head out to our first destination. As we walked down the stairs, I checked my email. The Kelly dress was available on CD’s resale site in my size. With shaky hands, I navigated my way to the site, where a note told me, “We’re sorry—we can’t seem to find this style.” I checked the email again—it had been an hour, and I had just missed it. Some other obsessive had got there first. 

“Shit, damn, shit,” I said under my breath as we walked away from my husband’s family. The email had come even before we had exited our car—if only I’d checked it right before going inside. I put on a sad song and stared out the window as we drove, while my husband laughed at my over-dramatization. 

“If it happened once, it’ll happen again,” he said.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “The Kelly dress is an elusive garment.”

But he was right. Only days later, I got the same email. I put the dress in my cart. It was only at a $3 discount—so $295 instead of $298. 

“No matter,” I said to myself. I added my discount code and gift card, and the resale website told me they didn’t apply to pre-loved items. I closed my eyes and breathed in. Fuck it, I thought, and hit “purchase” anyway.

That night, my husband and I went out with friends and I told them the whole saga. I texted my sisters, my friends, whoever would listen. I told my cat, who was not interested in the least. Soon, the dress would be in my closet.

When we got home, I checked my email. At the top: Canceled order. I started laughing. “We don’t do this often,” CD wrote. “But sometimes it happens.” No further explanation. 

“Maybe the universe doesn’t want you to have this dress,” my friend said.

I emailed CD anyway. “I’ve been trying to get this dress for months,” I told them. “Will it be restocked?”

It would be—and in new colors. Well, that wasn’t exciting to me. I liked how the dark fabric contrasted the lace detailing around the neck. CD released the Kelly weeks later in a light blue floral fabric, and I hated it. Maybe the universe didn’t want me to have the dress, and maybe I didn’t actually like it as much as I thought if I could have this reaction to another color. I stopped checking resale sites as frequently—maybe every other day if I remembered. I bought another dress off of Depop that looked like the Kelly dress in hopes it would fulfill my deepest desires. It was fine. I had to move on.

It’s not as good, right??

My Depop dupe.

At a recent work event, my coworker and dear friend walked in wearing the Adele, another CD dress I coveted while considering if the Kelly dress would really suit me. She looked like an angel. 

“The straps are a little big,” she said. “But it’s a forever dress.”

I got to see the fabric, pattern, and stitching up close. It was beautiful, and it fit her so well. Her experience reignited some hope in CD—that maybe it really was all I had cracked it up to be. Their Instagram aesthetic had started to bother me after my order was canceled—all these women in their beautiful dresses, standing in fields, tending to their horses, baking bread in their country kitchens. It was all a consumeristic daydream: I wouldn’t just be buying a new item, I’d be buying a new me.

Just last week, CD released the Kelly dress again, in a dark fabric similar to their original print. I was manic, knowing the new print was going to drop. I woke up early on the day their new collection launched (thanks, racing thoughts!) and then had to wait until about 10 am anyway, because CD is on Pacific time. But when it was available, I put the dress in my cart, added my discount code and gift card, and bought it. Ironically, it was way cheaper than if I’d bought it from their resale site, because their normal site allows for the discounts. Seems backwards to me, but I’m obviously no businesswoman.

Anyway, I’m scared of the dress. It seems crafted from fairy wings. It’s so lightweight. I almost wore it to my friend Caroline’s house the day after it arrived, but I left it sitting in my closet, tags still attached. It seemed blasphemous to use it so casually right off the bat. I had to test it. And so I made my husband take photos of me wearing it with a backdrop that mimicked my imaginings. And here it is.

There was for sure trash behind that log.

Fairy or faux?

It’s just as I feared: I’m still me, but in a new dress. Obsession and dissatisfaction often land in the same camp for me: I want so I can someday be content. I have and yet, I’m still considering what’s next. Perhaps contentment might come when I can handle my obsessive mind a bit better, as it’s the obsession itself that keeps me in a tornado of desire. The spinning can be fun, and it can also make me sick.

Let me know: Was the dress worth the drama/trauma/obsession/insanity/broken soul/expectations? We must remember, after putting so much meaning into this dress, after longing for it for months, after wearing out myself and my closest friends and family with my mania—I still have time to return it.

Spiraling,

Abi