Posts
I think that shopping for a wedding dress is a lot like looking for a coffin.
Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist and think I’m making some feminist statement comparing the state of matrimony to being confined in a small dark place for eternity.
I love marriage. It’s just the dress shopping I abhor.
It’s just that —like a coffin— you could buy a halfway decent used car for the same money as a wedding gown. And both are only going to be seen by your friends and family for a short period of time; although there are some viewings that go on for days, so maybe the casket has the edge there.
Then, after a few, brief hours of being the center of attention, both will get buried: the coffin in the cemetery, the dress in the back of the closet.
And, at your wedding or your funeral, you are going to look like you never do in real life— for better or for worse.
I’m down with the party planning aspect of the wedding; that’s what I do well. I can throw a bash like nobody’s business. That part is pretty well taken care of. But I started realizing that I had to get busy with the rest.
Which means shopping.
Did you know that the minimum amount of time to order dresses for brides and attendants is three months? I guess I instinctively realized that because my date is Oct. 2, a mere four months away, and I began having anxiety dreams.
Like caskets, you need help buying wedding clothes. You can’t just waltz in off the street and start checking things out. You need an appointment, and shepherding by someone with experience.
Right there, I’m in trouble. I can’t fathom making an appointment to shop. What is this, Rodeo Drive? I’m more impulsive than that.
And I can’t go just anywhere: I’m a plus size, which makes me persona non grata in many boutiques. Another strike: I’m 56 years-old, which means I need to hide my upper arms.
Which brings us to the most puzzling aspect of evening and wedding gowns today: they are all sleeveless, most of them strapless. It’s like some fashion ayatollah issued a fatwa against sleeves.
Here’s a newsflash: most chubby and older women have upper arms they shouldn’t be showing. To anyone.
I mean, it’s great if you’ve got Michelle Obama’s guns, but I don’t. I’ve got Barbara Bush arms.
My touchstone for great arms used to be Sarah Connor in “Terminator II,” but Linda Hamilton is only a year younger than me, so I’m supposing her arms aren’t exactly what they used to be, either.
So, you have to have a seamstress tack on sleeves that don’t look organic to the dress, or you cover up with a jacket, which makes you look matronly (see Barbara Bush reference, above).
There’s got to be something between the bare-it-all gowns of today, and that Chantilly lace and satin monstrosity Elizabeth Taylor wore in “Father of the Bride,” where only her face and hands are showing.
I just have to believe that somewhere out there the perfect dress is waiting for me. I mean, the hard part is over, right? I already have the groom.
