Wedding Blog

Everyone can go ahead and exhale, because my cliffhanger post from a few days ago shall be concluded forthwith.

Wait, why am I being greeted with blank stares? What, you don’t hang on my every update? Note to self–reevaluate notions of self-importance.

Anyway, as I explained earlier, time constraints originally forced me to resign myself to the impossibility of a designer or custom-made gown. Still, the pre-made J. Crew dress I found was (and is!) lovely, and I was perfectly content with it:

But when Mr. Lovebug and I decided to give ourselves another six months of engagement, possibilities bloomed before me once more. I pored through pages of glossy photos, clicked my away across the world wide wed, and dared to dream the designer dream.

One day, I grabbed my MOH and headed up to the nearest decent bridal shop (two hours north): Destiny’s Bride in Scottsdale. My intention was to just try on a few templates. I wanted to see how I’d feel in a poofy ballgown, a fishtail hem, a cathedral train…

Well, serendipity was the order of the day, because they were having, to my uninformed delight, a Monique Lhuillier trunk show. Not only that, but they were nearly booked solid for the day. Luckily, one of the salesgirls had some time to squeeze us in. Serendipitous, no?

We head upstairs and I see my first couture bridal salon. Racks and racks of delicious dresses like this:

I start sifting through silk, satin, tulle, through columns and empire waists and drop waists and pulls. Initially, I find eight dresses I like. And wouldn’t you know it, every single one I like, save one, is a Monique Lhuillier. In other words, had the trunk show not been going on, I would have found only one dress I liked.

See? Serendipity.

The very first number I try is strapless, with a beaded and be-ribboned bodice and a heavy duchess satin skirt. In other words, everything I thought I didn’t want two months prior. It’s not simple, and it’s not clean-lined. It’s complicated: embellished, detailed, iconic. Basically, something I thought I’d look like an oversized doily in. But then the salesgirl starts pulling and pinning and fitting the fabric to my torso and I realize that everything I thought I knew about wedding gowns was wrong.

My best friend looks at me approvingly and says, “Now THAT’S a wedding dress.”

It is so classic, so once-in-a-lifetime. Cliches are unavoidable at this point, because there are no synonyms for “princess”. And that’s how I feel for the next two hours. I pull on confections of silk and lace–truly works of art–one after another. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register a thought: this is surreal. These dresses are the exact opposite of who I think I am, and yet they suit me perfectly. They fit a part of me that hasn’t come out to play since I was about seven.

Then I try on a dress with pulls, and it’s all over. Think Cinderella factor of 10. I knew instantly that this was the style I wanted. “Modern”, “hip”, “clean”–they all take a flying leap out the window, because I want pulls. Pulls that gather and flounce and play. Pulls that me feel like Marie Antoinette playing hooky. I try on more dresses, narrowing my search to those with lovely, lovely pulls.

At some point in the process, I am crowned with a veil. Cue the waterworks. Leaving me to my fussing and sniffling, my maid of honor goes exploring. She returns with one final, magical discovery.

It’s blush pink taffeta. It has a fitted, darted bodice that points at the skirt and the most delicate beading that runs under the sweetheart bustline and along thin, wide-set shoulder straps. And pulls, glorious pulls. It’s something out of a period play, the costume of an 18th century French courtier, and it’s called “Camilla.” It’s tattered to bits. Clearly, hundreds of girls have fallen victim to its charms. I’m simultaneously terrified and smitten.

My MOH sees my expression, smiles and says, “Just try it.”

I oblige, and what can I say? If each of my ideas about my wedding gown had been knocked down one by one, THIS was the dress that delivered the coup de grace. Game over.

I stare at myself, transported–a girl playing dress up. My silhouette emerges in ways I’ve never seen it. I feel exquisitely feminine and childlike at the same time. I imagine the delight my fiance, the consummate actor, will take in its masquerade-ness. My heart pounds, and my best friend gets the chill watching me.

I know that if I buy this dress, it will force me to rethink the entire wedding: colors, flowers, formality, and even, I start to think, our location. But I know it’s the one, and I know it will give me the inspiration I’ve been heretofore lacking. I realize that my indecision about the cake, the decor, the everything, has all been because I didn’t have any inspiration. And now I will. I take one final twirl, a deep breath, and decide to go for it.

OK, so ya wanna see what I ditched Plan A for?

Plan B, on a model:

Plan B, on a me:

(And yes, Mr. Lovebug has seen these side and back glimpses; I haven’t shown him everything, however…he’ll have to wait to see the full frontal view!)

What do you think? Worth the trouble of rethinking an entire wedding?