Wedding Blog

After trying on 800 dresses and a hilarious ’80s-style montage, I’d just about given up and I was ready to call it a day and get some noodles already (Wagamama was just around the corner). Even MommaChips, shopping maven extraordinaire, was looking tired and weary. Weary and wary (she didn’t appreciate our hilarious ’80s-style montage).

But my friends (including my 6-months-preggo future sister-in-law) had just walked fifteen minutes to refresh the parking meter so I felt I owed it to them to go another round. Le sigh. The dresses were all so huge! So poufy! So shiny! So… not me. Even trying on dresses in earnest (i.e., of the non-pantsuit variety) made me feel like I was playing dress-up. I kept complaining, “I don’t think I like wedding dresses!”

Then, as fate would have it, a funny thing happened.

My friend handed me a dress, a wonderful dress! Lighter than air it was! Floaty and tiered and chiffon and magic and rainbows and stickers and ponies and butterflies!!! I tried it on, adjusted a few things, looked into the mirror. Smiled. Said, “hey…wait a minute…” Turned around and saw everyone else smiling, too.

I pulled down my sports bra straps and my mom fiddled with the top. It was… different. Lovely. Lovely enough to melt this sarcastic bride’s heart. I looked like I had stepped from the pages of the Great Gatsby. I channeled Daisy Buchanan. I pulled my glasses off, pulled my hair into a low bun, preened. Twirled.

In an instant, the skies cleared and what sprang to mind was our wedding day: fluffy peonies, whitewashed wood, salt air, blush and lime and ice cream cones.

Source

Yes, this dress fit the bill entirely.

But. In the corner, my mother frowned. Oh no. No. This was going to be SistahCrisp’s Senior Prom Dress again, wasn’t it? As in, my mother famously hated SistahCrisp’s senior prom dress (Ironically the dress, a long slinky black sheath, is the least dated of our fantastically ’90s prom dress collection), so much so that the sheer power of the Portuguese guilt made SistahC doubt and second-guess and my mother feel critical and then guilty and sorry until no one ended up happy. Although SistahCrispah wore the dress, we forever remember it as the One My Mom Hated. I mean, that’s the abridged version.

So I twirled and smiled and my friends smiled and my sister smiled and my mother frowned. “Well,” she said. “You have to love it.” And “Why don’t you try on a few more and come back to this one.” And “We can always go to some salons.” And “You don’t have to decide on anything right now.” You know, Mom-Guilt.

I took it off and put some more on, rinsed and repeated. I even tried calling Mr. Potato Head for more support and his opinion but he was in Vermont for the weekend with his friends, far from cell service and sobriety.

At this point I was thirsty and tired and my boobs hurt and my hair was frizzy and I was jonesing for noodles. In nooks everywhere we heard the sounds of brides finding their dresses and the ensuing clapping and cheering of their entourages. I gave it up for a day well-spent, a funny story. But my story, as it turns out, wasn’t over.

To be continued…