A girl can dream, can't she?

            While flipping through a magazine, I stopped to look at a spread showcasing the upcoming spring fashions. It seems the hoity-toity crowd is pushing the fashion envelope this year.   

            See-through blouses and four-inch stiletto heels appear in almost every show. Call me naive, but I don't think that look, or dresses that have to be Velcroed to someone's body, work well at the grocery store.

            Despite that huge reality gap, I love watching fashion shows and I wouldn't miss the Academy Awards. Not because of the statues they give out but because I love seeing what the stars are wearing.

            This secret fascination with fashion is odd because my fashion barometer hovers around matching my sweat pants to my socks. Looking back, I believe this secret love affair started in my Aunt Bev's closet.

            Aunt Bev let my cousin, Cindy, and me spend hours in her huge walk-in closet where we'd try on hats and  pretend to drink tea wearing elbow-length white gloves. We'd spend all afternoon in front of her vanity, putting on powder and make up.

            But all children grow up, and I stopped playing make believe. My teen-age years came on the heels of the hippies, and my generation distanced ourselves from love beads and tie-dye shirts by embracing sensibility.

            We went to sleep with our hair curled around small, empty frozen orange juice cans so our hair would be straight and unaffected. Our make-up routine consisted of Maybelline mascara and a spritz of simple honeysuckle cologne.

            As far as clothing, a pair of bell-bottoms and a red, white and blue T-shirt worked like a charm. Sure there were some girls who loved dressing up.

            I wasn't one of them.

            At least on the outside.

            Hiding behind those overalls and huarache sandals was the heart of someone who remembered how glamorous it was to dress up in a flowing evening gown, satin slippers and elbow-length white gloves.

            Instead of memorizing the periodic table like the driven women of my generation, I secretly memorized all the haute couture fashion designers from the golden days of Hollywood.

            My favorite was Adrian who designed spectacular evening gowns sporting yards of ivory chiffon and soft , flowing organza. Edith Head, Christian Dior and Coco Chanel designed gowns that made every woman look like an elegant princess.

            I've watched the clip of Ginger Rogers dancing with Fred Astaire to "Cheek to Cheek" at least a dozen times because of the ostrich feathered dress she wears. I'll sit through any Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly movie, not for their acting skills, but to see their beautiful dresses.

            I can still picture every gown and outfit Kelly wore in "Rear Window" and "To Catch A Thief;" and even though few women are as thin as Hepburn, her dresses in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" remain icons of elegant beauty.

            I often wish there were occasions where I could pull on satin slippers and dance away my troubles. However, that's simply not practical.

            In my life, sweats and shorts do just fine and it doesn't matter if I spill anything on them or wear them until they're faded 10 shades lighter than the original. I don't need stiletto heels to go to the grocery store or clean the bathrooms.

            But a girl can still dream.

            Of waltzing around an elegant ballroom wearing yards of billowing ivory chiffon.

            Or playing dress-up in her aunt's closet, pretending to be a princess on the way to the ball.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.