Read Online How I Planned Your Wedding by Susan Wiggs - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wiggs
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it had been spun from my little-girl wedding dreams, I was speechless.
Brigitte saw my moment of weakness and knew she had me. All she had to do was get past my last line of wedding defense—my mom.
She looked down at my mom’s shoes as if to gather strength fromtheir signature red soles, then tried a new tactic: “Mrs. Wiggs, I can see by your ensemble that you’re a woman who knows fashion. You must see how tragic it would be for your daughter to wear a less-than-perfect gown on the day of her wedding.”
My mom, in an uncharacteristic moment of gullibility, seemed to waver. I’m guessing this resulted from the cloying scent of gardenias wafting through the air from the multitude of floral arrangements adorning the shop.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose we could look at a couple of slightly more expensive gowns…but nothing over two thousand. I’d be shocked if we can’t find something beautiful for such a price.”
The words more expensive seemed to bring Brigitte back to life. Invoking a salesgirl’s selective deafness, she ignored the slightly part of my mom’s response and promptly took us on a whirlwind tour of tulle-and-satin heaven. She seemed to float around the shop, hoisting piles of gowns that must have weighed more than she did and transporting them to a dressing room that resembled Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.
She ordered me to strip down to my grundies (that’s grandma-undies, to those of you who are still convinced that G-strings are comfortable). It only took me a minute (and a glass of Dom Perignon) to forget my jiggly abs and flabby butt as dress after beautiful dress slipped over my head, each more stunning than the last. Brigitte’s fingers flew, fastening rows of minuscule hook-and-eye button closures with machine-like speed; she was able to fill my mom’s and Molly’s champagne flutes with little more than a threatening glance. Finally, when I thought I had been through every ball gown the store had to offer, Brigitte opened the door to my dressing room. “I saved the best for last,” she breathed, a glint in her eye.
With the wily skill of a crack dealer, she produced a breathtaking whisper of couture for me, reverently placing the cloudlike garment on a gilded hook on the wall. She whisked aside my privacy curtain without so much as a “Hide your eyes” to Molly or my mom. “You’ll want to see this one, ladies,” she said.
I tried to pull a Venus-on-a-half-shell maneuver with my hair and my hands, hiding my lady bits as much as possible, but my pathetic attempt at modesty was unnecessary as all eyes in the dressing room were on the silk tulle layers of the gown. As it swayed on its hanger, I noticed subtle crystals peeking through the folds in the voluminous skirt. Swoon.
Employing a device that looked like a giant crowbar, Brigitte forced me to pour my pre-wedding-diet hips into the size 0 and had the buttons fastened down my back before my flesh could burst free. I was disconcerted. Vaguely humiliated, even. I felt like a sausage whose casing was too small.
I turned, disappointment on my face, to Molly and my mom. “I look like a joke, don’t I?”
Molly’s eyes were like saucers. “Oh, Wiggs,” she said, her eyes full of emotion.
I knew it. I knew it! Brigitte’s hard stares at my winter-soft physique hadn’t simply been the result of her lifelong goal to be able to hide behind a toothpick. Sure, she hadn’t actually said anything about my body, but I knew what she was thinking, and she was right. Now Molly thought so, too.
I should just get married in a bathrobe. I could never pull off the ball gown I’d been dreaming of since I could say “printheth” in my toddler’s lisp.
I glanced at my mom and saw her clutching her heart.
Okay, it wasn’t that bad, was it?
Was I really giving my mom heartburn with my over-the-top wedding dress preferences?
I turned slowly to look in the mirror and survey the damage. There, standing before me, was exactly
Brigitte saw my moment of weakness and knew she had me. All she had to do was get past my last line of wedding defense—my mom.
She looked down at my mom’s shoes as if to gather strength fromtheir signature red soles, then tried a new tactic: “Mrs. Wiggs, I can see by your ensemble that you’re a woman who knows fashion. You must see how tragic it would be for your daughter to wear a less-than-perfect gown on the day of her wedding.”
My mom, in an uncharacteristic moment of gullibility, seemed to waver. I’m guessing this resulted from the cloying scent of gardenias wafting through the air from the multitude of floral arrangements adorning the shop.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose we could look at a couple of slightly more expensive gowns…but nothing over two thousand. I’d be shocked if we can’t find something beautiful for such a price.”
The words more expensive seemed to bring Brigitte back to life. Invoking a salesgirl’s selective deafness, she ignored the slightly part of my mom’s response and promptly took us on a whirlwind tour of tulle-and-satin heaven. She seemed to float around the shop, hoisting piles of gowns that must have weighed more than she did and transporting them to a dressing room that resembled Marie Antoinette’s boudoir.
She ordered me to strip down to my grundies (that’s grandma-undies, to those of you who are still convinced that G-strings are comfortable). It only took me a minute (and a glass of Dom Perignon) to forget my jiggly abs and flabby butt as dress after beautiful dress slipped over my head, each more stunning than the last. Brigitte’s fingers flew, fastening rows of minuscule hook-and-eye button closures with machine-like speed; she was able to fill my mom’s and Molly’s champagne flutes with little more than a threatening glance. Finally, when I thought I had been through every ball gown the store had to offer, Brigitte opened the door to my dressing room. “I saved the best for last,” she breathed, a glint in her eye.
With the wily skill of a crack dealer, she produced a breathtaking whisper of couture for me, reverently placing the cloudlike garment on a gilded hook on the wall. She whisked aside my privacy curtain without so much as a “Hide your eyes” to Molly or my mom. “You’ll want to see this one, ladies,” she said.
I tried to pull a Venus-on-a-half-shell maneuver with my hair and my hands, hiding my lady bits as much as possible, but my pathetic attempt at modesty was unnecessary as all eyes in the dressing room were on the silk tulle layers of the gown. As it swayed on its hanger, I noticed subtle crystals peeking through the folds in the voluminous skirt. Swoon.
Employing a device that looked like a giant crowbar, Brigitte forced me to pour my pre-wedding-diet hips into the size 0 and had the buttons fastened down my back before my flesh could burst free. I was disconcerted. Vaguely humiliated, even. I felt like a sausage whose casing was too small.
I turned, disappointment on my face, to Molly and my mom. “I look like a joke, don’t I?”
Molly’s eyes were like saucers. “Oh, Wiggs,” she said, her eyes full of emotion.
I knew it. I knew it! Brigitte’s hard stares at my winter-soft physique hadn’t simply been the result of her lifelong goal to be able to hide behind a toothpick. Sure, she hadn’t actually said anything about my body, but I knew what she was thinking, and she was right. Now Molly thought so, too.
I should just get married in a bathrobe. I could never pull off the ball gown I’d been dreaming of since I could say “printheth” in my toddler’s lisp.
I glanced at my mom and saw her clutching her heart.
Okay, it wasn’t that bad, was it?
Was I really giving my mom heartburn with my over-the-top wedding dress preferences?
I turned slowly to look in the mirror and survey the damage. There, standing before me, was exactly
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