Read Online Autobiography of a Fat Bride by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie Notaro
Tags: Fiction
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realizing that I look remarkably like a Judd or one of the Gabor sisters, dead or alive.
We got to the bridal shop.
My mother picked out the dresses she liked.
I got naked in a dressing room with a stranger.
But it was way worse than that. I had no hope of capturing any of the glamour of Eva, Ava, or Ova when all of that white satin came tumbling over my head. I didn’t even have the charm of one of their poodles.
When I came face-to-face with the real-life image of Laurie in a wedding dress, the first thing I thought was, “Realistically, what are my chances of dying in a Dust Devil–related home-liposuction attempt?”
The second thing I thought was “Can I hire a stand-in?”
And the third thing I thought was “I’m already that monolith.”
My mother, on the other hand, saw something different. She most likely had the wrong glasses on, but in that mirror she didn’t see Agnes Gooch or a girl crammed into a wedding dress so tight she looked like a Price Club–size white satin sausage. My mother saw a bride.
I saw razor burn.
“You’ll look beautiful,” my mother said. “Once you brush your hair.”
“You look good,” the saleslady added. “It makes your boobs perky.”
“Oh, thanks,” I answered. “I thought only a crane or five thousand dollars could do that.”
“You look so pretty,” my mother reiterated. She smiled.
She knew what she was doing.
I couldn’t fight with someone who was telling me that I was fetching, perky, or relatively attractive.
She won the battle, that day.
I never even got to form a fist.
The Suck of Bridal G-Force
I will admit there was a moment that I really did get sucked into a bridal black hole. In a way, you can hardly help it. After spending months of leafing through ten pounds of wedding magazines every single time you come back from the grocery store, your mind becomes a little soft and very open to suggestion. After you’ve flipped through the newest issues of
Modern Bride, Bridal Guide, Bride’s, Martha Stewart Weddings, InStyle Weddings, Bride Again,
and
Encore Bride,
you will honestly believe that you will look exquisite walking down the aisle dressed as a lemon meringue pie, or even more tragic, a coconut macaroon.
Bridal magazines propagate faster than mosquitoes. Every time I went to pick up a stick of margarine or a box of tampons, there on the shelf was a brand-new issue of the same magazine I bought yesterday. In hindsight, I am fully convinced that it’s actually the same, exact magazine, but that the publishers supply retailers with thirty different covers each month, and when the one on the shelves is sold, the quickest bag boy on staff runs to the supply room immediately to fetch the next version of the magazine with the new cover. It wouldn’t be a difficult scam at all; every magazine has the same awful dresses that make you believe that the Civil War era really is back in fashion and that if you want a gaggle of bridesmaids that could double for Suellen O’Hara, Melanie Hamilton, and Aunt Pittypat on Halloween, that is your God-given right as a bride, and anyone who tries to talk you out of it is nothing less than the devil. All sport the same, limp stories with headlines like “Flatware: An Investigative Report,” “Is Your Coffeemaker Meeting Your Needs?” and “The Truth Behind 200-Thread-Count Sheets.” Bridal magazines are kind of like OxyContin for the ivory satin/tulle crowd, and when you get down to it, I believe they are the number-one cause of why it is easier to reason with a crack addict than it is an engaged woman.
Because of bridal magazines and an emphatic endorsement from my mother, I became convinced that not creating a bridal registry was nothing short of bestial.
“If you don’t go and register this very minute,” my mother warned, “I’ll tell you right now that every present you open will be candlesticks and salt and pepper shakers. And you can’t build a home on that! If you don’t believe
We got to the bridal shop.
My mother picked out the dresses she liked.
I got naked in a dressing room with a stranger.
But it was way worse than that. I had no hope of capturing any of the glamour of Eva, Ava, or Ova when all of that white satin came tumbling over my head. I didn’t even have the charm of one of their poodles.
When I came face-to-face with the real-life image of Laurie in a wedding dress, the first thing I thought was, “Realistically, what are my chances of dying in a Dust Devil–related home-liposuction attempt?”
The second thing I thought was “Can I hire a stand-in?”
And the third thing I thought was “I’m already that monolith.”
My mother, on the other hand, saw something different. She most likely had the wrong glasses on, but in that mirror she didn’t see Agnes Gooch or a girl crammed into a wedding dress so tight she looked like a Price Club–size white satin sausage. My mother saw a bride.
I saw razor burn.
“You’ll look beautiful,” my mother said. “Once you brush your hair.”
“You look good,” the saleslady added. “It makes your boobs perky.”
“Oh, thanks,” I answered. “I thought only a crane or five thousand dollars could do that.”
“You look so pretty,” my mother reiterated. She smiled.
She knew what she was doing.
I couldn’t fight with someone who was telling me that I was fetching, perky, or relatively attractive.
She won the battle, that day.
I never even got to form a fist.
The Suck of Bridal G-Force
I will admit there was a moment that I really did get sucked into a bridal black hole. In a way, you can hardly help it. After spending months of leafing through ten pounds of wedding magazines every single time you come back from the grocery store, your mind becomes a little soft and very open to suggestion. After you’ve flipped through the newest issues of
Modern Bride, Bridal Guide, Bride’s, Martha Stewart Weddings, InStyle Weddings, Bride Again,
and
Encore Bride,
you will honestly believe that you will look exquisite walking down the aisle dressed as a lemon meringue pie, or even more tragic, a coconut macaroon.
Bridal magazines propagate faster than mosquitoes. Every time I went to pick up a stick of margarine or a box of tampons, there on the shelf was a brand-new issue of the same magazine I bought yesterday. In hindsight, I am fully convinced that it’s actually the same, exact magazine, but that the publishers supply retailers with thirty different covers each month, and when the one on the shelves is sold, the quickest bag boy on staff runs to the supply room immediately to fetch the next version of the magazine with the new cover. It wouldn’t be a difficult scam at all; every magazine has the same awful dresses that make you believe that the Civil War era really is back in fashion and that if you want a gaggle of bridesmaids that could double for Suellen O’Hara, Melanie Hamilton, and Aunt Pittypat on Halloween, that is your God-given right as a bride, and anyone who tries to talk you out of it is nothing less than the devil. All sport the same, limp stories with headlines like “Flatware: An Investigative Report,” “Is Your Coffeemaker Meeting Your Needs?” and “The Truth Behind 200-Thread-Count Sheets.” Bridal magazines are kind of like OxyContin for the ivory satin/tulle crowd, and when you get down to it, I believe they are the number-one cause of why it is easier to reason with a crack addict than it is an engaged woman.
Because of bridal magazines and an emphatic endorsement from my mother, I became convinced that not creating a bridal registry was nothing short of bestial.
“If you don’t go and register this very minute,” my mother warned, “I’ll tell you right now that every present you open will be candlesticks and salt and pepper shakers. And you can’t build a home on that! If you don’t believe
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