The dresses, from left to right:
Wedding dress #2, Wedding dress #1,
Rehearsal dinner dress, and Wedding dress #3
Rehearsal dinner dress, and Wedding dress #3
Like any red blooded American girl, I very much enjoy shopping. It’s basically my favorite thing to do- outside of whining and eating candy.
I love shopping so much that I even like watching other people shop. I get excited when they find the Best. Deal. EVER. I get angry when they buy something ill-fitting, out of style, or just plain potato sack-like. And I must not be the only one, because “Say Yes to the Dress” is a fairly popular show.
There is nothing better than turning on the TV and watching happily engaged girls prance around a store full of princess dresses while followed by their entourage of ladies in waiting, searching for that one perfect dress. Well maybe the best thing next to actually doing it yourself.
This was my thought process as I excitedly dialed the number to a bridal store and made an appointment to be a princess for an hour. And this is the story of how I ended up with one of the many inhabitants of my now famous closet full of wedding dresses.
I’m not much of a pack hunter when it comes to shopping, for two main reasons. For starters, I prefer to hunt my prey/shop for shoes alone- like a stealthy tiger.
The tiger is a 'concealment and ambush hunter', carefully stalking prey, circling in as closely as possible, and then suddenly charging the target from behind. That’s me in the Nordstroms shoe department. I will take you down for a pair of pumps. Stalk, circle, pounce, cash or credit. Happy.
Bringing friends just slows me down and distracts me from my prey, mostly because they find my behavior somewhat homicidal and psychotic. But also because they’re all horrifically filthy liars- every last one of them.
It’s really not their fault, women are programmed to stammer out “OMG I loooooove that cut on you!” regardless of how nightmarish you really look.
You say I look good in harem pants? Filthy liar. No one looks good in harem pants. NO ONE.
Unfortunately I couldn’t get out of bringing one person to the store with me. My mother. Like some kind of mind reading ninja she called the moment I hung up the phone with the (most likely prescription drug induced) obscenely perky bridal saleswoman. “What are you up to?”
Dammit. I’m so busted. Moms’ coming to the party.
Here’s how the day went. I get to the bridal store before mom- thank God. I can find a dress and get the hell out of here before she comes in. This takes exactly 23 minutes on television, so that means I can do it in 15. Why? Because I’m a stealthy tiger! Pay attention here people.
About 45 minutes and 15 dresses later I’m ready to maim someone, most likely myself. Sales lady has decided a mermaid dress will “Just make you look soooo amazing!!!!”. (Unnaturally large and forced smile while shaking above-mentioned dress in my face).
I see the dress. The dress is pretty. Pretty freaking long and kind of resembles a shiny tube sock. I decide this dress will not work for me. I am disturbingly aware of my own inabilities to do simple things, like form a coherent sentence or walk a straight line. I can’t have some sausage-like dress sucking my legs together like sardines in a tin can. I’m obviously disabled enough without yards of fabric wrapped around me like a mummified pharaoh.
Mom shows up. She hates the dress. Oh you hate this dress? Well I-eeeee love it! I must try it on! I MUST HAVE THIS THING YOU DESPISE! Simply because you are my mother, and deep inside we’re all just 15 year old girls dying for one last chance to agitate mommy.
Mom rolls her eyes in what as her daughter I know means “you’re going to bust your tail in that thing and roll around on the floor like an injured seal.”
I get in the dress. Sales lady pulls an infinite amount of strings throughout the back of the dress. I can’t breathe. She pulls them tighter. Dear Lord I can’t move. My back cracks. Or is that a rib? Cheese and crackers get me out of this thing! I can’t feel my toes. It’s 5000 degrees in this dress and I’m sweating like a pig on Christmas Eve. For the love of anything get me the hell out of here!
Once I’m safely tied into my strapless straight jacket, I look in the mirror. Now I have no misconceptions about my body type. I’m built like a 12 year old pre-pubescent boy, just strait as a board. Not a curve in sight. This dress is doing everything in its power to accentuate this unfortunate fault in my genetics. It’s also made for a person of average height- meaning it’s about 6 inches too long on me. I look like a centipede in an abnormally long and sparkly cocoon. And the lack of oxygen has turned my absurdly pale skin a lovely shade of blue while my now deprived blood vessels are all clearly visible to people in the damn parking lot.
This is the most God-awful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s worse than that. The clouds have parted, the heavens have opened, and God is laughing at me in my unfortunate situation. This sucks.
Mom calls for me to come out.
I tip-toe out of the dressing room, attempting to suck in as much oxygen as possible while holding up an infinite amount of fabric that has every intention of causing a major face plant.
Mom looks at the dress. Looks at me. Looks at the dress. Looks at the floor. Back at me. “Is that what it’s supposed to look like?” I would laugh if I could spare the lung capacity.
Back to the dressing room, where a tuft of fabric sneaks out of my grip to fulfill its destiny and lifelong dream. I trip on the fabric and stumble as gracefully as a heard of drunk elephants in a china shop, into the dressing room. I frantically grab for the door frame. The wall ACTUALLY MOVES AWAY FROM ME in an almost successful attempt to make me break my neck. (True story.) The dress and the floor work together in perfect harmony to create a slalom-like effect and I slide under the bench on the other side of the dressing room. I slam into the wall and realize that with my FREAKING LEGS GLUED TOGETHER I have absolutely no chance of ever getting out from under the bench. I resign to living there.
Sales lady is very concerned about the dress. I am very concerned that my mother may have seen this catastrophe. Apparently neither one of us is very concerned about my safety or the fact that I am precariously wedged into a completely unnatural position underneath the bench.
The sales woman pulls me out, amazingly unfazed by this entire ordeal. I realize this could be because of her medication or because this happens all the time. For the sake of my now shattered self-esteem, I decide it is the latter.
The dress is intact, and mom was not witness to what was almost the most epic “told you so” moment in history.
I am freed from the dress. My ribs take back their natural position, my spine realigns; and sales lady suggests I come back another time. Her drugs have worn off and she’s cranky now. Mom and I very much enjoy this, and she suggests we go get coffee. I like the coffee idea.
About a week later I came across a website much like EBay, where merchants make clothes and sell them. I contacted a very nice lady and sent her pictures of reception dresses I liked.
Reception dresses because the thought of actual wedding dresses now threw me into a horrific cocktail of anaphylactic shock and irrational bridal meltdown. I decided to start small this time.
Three weeks later I got a tiny box in the mail- from China. It was the perfect little dress, and it fit like a glove.
I did make a few alterations to this dress. It originally had an ivory band and a flower at the waist. I replaced the band with a sash that matched our wedding colors. I also added a brooch much like the ones my grandmother kept in her jewelry box, which was full of colorful baubles.
Since my darling grandmother and her box of trinkets have come to pass, I picked up a “new” grandma brooch at a thrift store. I’m sure it once also belonged to someones lovely grandma J
No comments:
Post a Comment