Prepare for battle. We’re going to David’s Bridal.

So after my triumphant purchase of a reception dress, I was all too happy to show it off. I loved it so much that I decided I didn’t need a big white dress- this was the only wedding dress I needed.

That is, until, Jose’s mother saw it.

If you’ve never met Jose’s mother, I’ll be the first to tell you that she is a very lovely woman. She’s an amazing cook and my ever present translator over holiday dinners, where I am awkwardly the only one at the table who does not speak Spanish. That’s also when I tend to catch up on my drinking.

But none of that matters now, because she’s about to become the mother in law. My sole purpose in life is no longer testing the limits of my own liver or researching the possibility of hitting puberty after the age of 20. It’s making sure that little Peruvian woman is absolutely in love with me. Forget the wedding vows, seriously. If his mother hates you then a slow painful death will sound heavenly compared to facing her at every family event you attend for the rest of your miserable little life. Make sure mom adores you. That is your new purpose in life.  

So when Mamma Rosa sees the wedding dress and asks…. This is for the wedding? Well that dress very well may be for the wedding, but do you know what you say? You say No mamma Rosa of course not! This is just some dress. That I bought. Because I need a white dress for some occasion other than my own wedding. Honestly I don’t even know why I showed you this. I have a dress. It’s a big white dress. Where? It’s… not…. here- it’s at the store! I need to pick it up. Yup. I need to do that. Frick.

Crisis adverted, but I suddenly feel nauseous and run for the bathroom. Once there I succumb to an EPIC PANIC ATTACK and proceed with literally banging my head against the wall while verbally abusing myself. Frick frick frick! Seriously what were you thinking? You don’t have a big white dress and you can’t get a big white dress because you have now gone down in history as the only person dumb enough to be banned from a bridal store. This is tragic.

Mamma Rosa wants to see a big white wedding dress and you’d better find one quick. Now put on your big girl panties and march your happy tail into any store that sells ANYTHING resembling a wedding dress and buy it. NOW.

This calls for a drastic change in plans. I need a dress in a hurry. I have to go to Davids Bridal.

For lack of better words, David’s Bridal literally scares the crap out of me. It’s full of screaming, delusional, and quite possibly homicidal girls tearing through isles with arms full of dresses in giant plastic bags. Do not come between a girl and her dress unless you have military combat training or suicidal tendencies. You see, wedding dress overload short circuits their brains and morphs these otherwise logical and well-adjusted ladies into half crazed murderous zombie-brides. And those helper women that work there are always stalking you around like a dirty old car salesman. How am I supposed to be a stealthy tiger with you following me around asking about my cup size? That’s not helping me, that’s giving me a complex about how unconvincing my push up bra must look.

Helper women, homicidal bridesmaids, and zombie brides. No thank you. Or… face a lifetime of angry mamma Rosa. She could curse at me in no less than six languages.

I choose the lesser of evils and put on the big girl panties. I give myself numerous pep talks. I procrastinate and fall into the “circle of despair”. Eventually, I get out of the house and into my car, and drive to that industrial sized warehouse stocked full of crazy women fighting over white and poof and glitter…. I go to David’s Bridal.

My trip to David’s Bridal was surprisingly calm. I went on a random Tuesday afternoon to avoid the vultures. I marched into the store with my head high and refused to make eye contact with any of the women sitting behind the helper desk. On a side note, I’ve noticed that if you walk into a store and look like you know what you’re doing, people tend to leave you alone.  

So anyways I marched into the store while replaying in my mind a vision of the perfect helper lady. She came in the form of a tiny overweight woman wearing an animal print jacket and lime green eye shadow, cursing at tiaras that would not sit properly on a high shelf that she could barely reach. She was wearing a toxic amount of perfume, rings on every finger, and gold flats. She was 100% Italian and quite possibly drunk. I tend to stick with my own kind, and this chick was perfect.

I adjusted the tiaras for her and explained my terrible situation, my fear of wedding dresses, and the possible nightmarish outcomes of not presenting my soon-to-be mother in law with a proper wedding dress. She laughed so hard she had to sit down. Seeing as she was drunk before noon, I had to help her get back up.

Drunk Italian helper lady told me to sit quietly and not touch anything while she ran off to find dresses, not once asking about my size, preference, or the ever important “wedding theme”. I was thankful for that last part seeing as I was lacking any theme outside of “survival”.

Ten minutes later she comes back with one dress, just one dress, which I immediately hate. She gives me a look that clearly states “When I want your opinion I will give it to you” and finds a mirror to put in the biggest dressing room they have. Then she shoves me and the dress in the room with a stern warning about the repercussions of not putting on the dress.

I hate this dress. I cross my arms and pout while reincarnating the perfect “authority bashing teenager leaning on a wall while intensely staring at a corner”. It was surprisingly good considering I haven’t used it since my mother wouldn’t let me go to HFStival when I was 15. I scowl at the dress and blow raspberries at the door.  Drunk Italian helper lady bangs on the door and repeats her warning. I admit defeat and get into the dress in much the same way a 4 year old puts on a school uniform. Hostile. 

Wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing fits like a glove. And it’s on sale? Oh you’re kidding me. “I told you so” from the other side of the door. Never doubt an Italian woman.  

Once again triumphant, I skip out of the dressing room with my prize as the zombie brides peer over mounds of dresses to catch a glimpse of my glorious dress. Straight to the register where I happily pay an obscenely low amount of money and daydream of all the shoes I can buy with my extra cash while absently signing my receipt. I hug my pretty dress like a carnival prize in its giant white bag while twirling towards the car as bluebirds and bunnies and deer appear from seemingly nowhere to follow me and sing a cheerful little melody in perfect harmony. I take one last peek at home before carefully tucking my prize away in a closet where Jose will never find it. It was the perfect day.

And in fact, Jose never did find the dress. He did however find the pictures of me in the dress on my phone about a month later.

And that was the abrupt end of the glorious and short life of wedding dress number two.