It’s that time of year again--when I get to select my cocktail dress du jour for the event del año.

This particular event is a benefit for a good cause and the theme is “pre-revolution Havana.” After I survey my closet, I realize that unfortunately, all of my dresses are pure Castro regime. And every single item in it is black. Black dresses, black skirts, black shoes. Whose funeral was I constantly attending? Oh yeah, my youth’s.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have to shop for a dress.

I enter the store and quickly survey my options. I divide them visually into three categories: 1.) 3rd Step-mother of the bride dresses, 2.) Draperies, and 3.) Bedouin chic.

Desert nomads are my best bet, but since there is salsa dancing, I try first for number one.

Before I enter the dressing room, I am not freakishly out of proportion, but it seems once I attempt to zip up this dress presumably made for female humans--my hips have moved like an elevator up my torso because I’m sucking in so hard. Even though I was born long after the Cuban Missile Crisis, I know the Bay of Pigs refers to my armpits and their newfound pelvic bone buoy.

There is about 1.5 inches of zipper that refuses to go up, and I enter that period in my body’s negotiations known as The Decision. Ladies and Tim Gunn, shoot me with a B-12 shot if I’m lying here, but we all know that there is a 50-50 chance that when forced, a tight zipper will either zip you in beautifully like a friendly corset, or it will encase you like a sausage for 10.2 seconds before it bursts and shoots you out of an organza cannon like the circus freak that you are.

There is really no way to tell ahead of time which way it will go, only the little Pillsbury Dough Boy dressed in devil horns on your shoulder in the three-way mirror asking how lucky you feel.

Personally, I determine how much of a gambler I am by looking at the price tag first. Am I willing to bet $109.99 that that Szechwan chicken I had for lunch was low sodium?

Maybe it’s time for option number three.

Or should I say, quatro, cinco and seis since it took me several more days to actually find something to wear to my Havana Nights Night.

It’s a little spunky, zips up without too much effort and should be okay for dancing. Its only drawback is it’s black. Again.

At least I’ll be impeccably dressed for next year’s eastern bloc disco picnic.

©2009 Tracey Henry

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