I want one that'll peel 30 years off while making me look 20 pounds lighter. It must also be elegant and tasteful -- the kind of dress Jackie Kennedy or Audrey Hepburn would have worn. But I want to buy it on sale. Preferably marked down to about 75 to 80 percent off, to satisfy the penny-pinching el cheapo housewife that lurks inside me.

Finding a dress like this isn't as easy as it sounds.

I've been prowling the stores and checking what's on the racks and I've discovered a terrible couture conspiracy. Dresses no longer come in different styles. THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE! They are either short and skinny or long and skinny. In fact, I was looking at one in a local store when the saleslady, who had hit puberty about eight minutes before I arrived, ambushed me from behind.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" She purred.

"Yes, I guess I am. Do you have dresses for people with lumps?"

"Lumps?" Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by lumps?" I held up one of the stick straight dresses that crowded the racks.

"Who could wear this? It's straight up and down. Normal women have lumps in strategic places. You know what I mean-- a figure? This dress was designed with a nine-year-old in mind." Too late I noticed that the saleslady was -- you guessed it -- clad in the exact same dress as the one I was holding. She puffed up like one of those porcupine-looking fish the Japanese like to eat and raked me with a look that said, "Try One-Size-Fits-All." But she didn't say it. Instead she maneuvered me over to a rack of clothes that appeared to have been hanging there since Appomatox.

I had been exiled to Polyester Hell. There was a lovely grape-colored number that brought back fond memories of Miss Francis and Ding Dong School. There was also a mud-brown, houndstooth checkered suit and something with bright orange ruffles.

"This is very nice," I said. "But I need something dressier. It's semi-formal."

"Oh, I see. What type of formal wear do you usually prefer?"

"Hmmmmmm. Let's see, when did I last wear a formal? Oh yeah, I remember! The prom! It was pink until I dumped French salad dressing in my lap. And then the hairdresser flipped my hair up instead of under, so by the time we got to the dance, it had sagged and was sticking out like helicopter rotors all around my head. I think I hid my prom photo in a safe deposit box somewhere...." The saleschild took my arm and, with surprising strength for a toothpick, propelled me over to a rack of "mother of the bride" dresses.

They were matronly. I am not a matron. My mother is a matron. My grandmother was a matron. The world abounds with matrons. But I am not one of them. While I'll admit I'm no longer a sweet, young thing, I'm still a chick. OK, maybe that's stretching it a bit. How about a woman in the prime of her life? All right, all right. I'm a little over the hill, but I'm not a blasted matron.