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Authors: Susan Wiggs
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what I’d been fantasizing since I was a little girl.
The dress was…perfect. The skirt drifted to the floor, forming a large bell with a four-foot train that would have made Disney animators jealous. The bodice nipped in at the narrowest part of my waist andsuddenly I found myself glad for my curvy hips. The warm ivory color of the delicate tulle set off creamy peach tones in my skin, causing my blue eyes to take on a cerulean hue. My hair, pulled carelessly back and slightly frizzy from the frenzy of dress changes suddenly seemed carefree and romantic. A soft sweetheart neckline, bordered by glinting crystals, gave me nontrashy cleavage (how’s that for a miracle?), and huzzah! My arms looked slender.
The skinny bitch got it right. This dress was The One.
I happily skipped about the entire store, jumping up on the runway and flouncing to and fro, checking myself out in the mirrored walls and squealing like a contestant on The Bachelor.
I looked Brigitte in her flat eyes and said, “This is it. I’ll take it.”
In a flash, her face came to life and her expression changed to what can only be described as a barracuda with a plump, juicy gold-fish in its sights. “Great,” she cackled, steepling her fingers (seriously, she really did steeple her fingers). “This one is $12,000. Plus tailoring, fitting, prewedding storage, dewrinkling, steaming, refitting, day-of fitting, postwedding storage.” She might as well have added post-divorce repurposing for good measure.
I’d been waiting for my mom to burst into tears when I found the dress of my dreams. And she did, but I’ll never know if it was the sight of her little girl in the bridal gown, or the price tag that broke her down.
My lower lip began to tremble. Twelve thousand dollars? But that was almost my entire wedding budget! Wildly, my mind began to race, trying to divine a way for me to afford the gown. You could have this dress if you fed your guests squirt cheese on Rye Crisps and downgraded the music to a kazoo quartet, I told myself.
You could offer to moonlight here as a salesgirl and work off some of the cost, I thought. I looked at Brigitte and realized I’d never make it in the underworld.
Then I was hit by a lightning bolt of genius. Run! I heard the voice in my head screaming. Run now! While she’s not expecting it! As my legmuscles tensed, I was already calculating how much jail time I could get for stealing a $12,000 dress. I edged toward the door, trying to recall exactly where I’d parked the getaway car. And then I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror—this time from across the room, where the fine details on the dress (including the designer’s name embroidered into the tag) weren’t as apparent.
You know what I looked like?
A bride. A bride in a big, white dress. A young, excited bride who was glowing with happiness over the prospect of decades spent with her soul mate.
The expression on my face—the one I’d been wearing since I met Dave, actually—was the most stunning part of my ensemble, and I knew then that any gown I chose for my wedding day would simply be icing on the cake. But it wasn’t the cake. I was.
Because, folks, here’s the reality: a big white dress is a big white dress. It doesn’t matter if it was designed by Coco Chanel or Koko the Ape. Other than the occasional Rachel Zoe addict, no one is going to be able to tell the difference. Cheesy as it sounds, a happy bride’s smile will shine more brightly than any Swarovski crystal ever could.
So go ahead and wear your dress (or skirt, or pantsuit, or bikini, or skort or whatever bridal outfit you choose) like it came right off a Parisian runway. The only thing people will remember (if they remember anything besides the color) is how you glowed with joy. And maybe some will remember the cut (including you), so if you want a ball gown, get a blasted ball gown because it’s the only chance you’ll have to wear one without looking like you’re in
The dress was…perfect. The skirt drifted to the floor, forming a large bell with a four-foot train that would have made Disney animators jealous. The bodice nipped in at the narrowest part of my waist andsuddenly I found myself glad for my curvy hips. The warm ivory color of the delicate tulle set off creamy peach tones in my skin, causing my blue eyes to take on a cerulean hue. My hair, pulled carelessly back and slightly frizzy from the frenzy of dress changes suddenly seemed carefree and romantic. A soft sweetheart neckline, bordered by glinting crystals, gave me nontrashy cleavage (how’s that for a miracle?), and huzzah! My arms looked slender.
The skinny bitch got it right. This dress was The One.
I happily skipped about the entire store, jumping up on the runway and flouncing to and fro, checking myself out in the mirrored walls and squealing like a contestant on The Bachelor.
I looked Brigitte in her flat eyes and said, “This is it. I’ll take it.”
In a flash, her face came to life and her expression changed to what can only be described as a barracuda with a plump, juicy gold-fish in its sights. “Great,” she cackled, steepling her fingers (seriously, she really did steeple her fingers). “This one is $12,000. Plus tailoring, fitting, prewedding storage, dewrinkling, steaming, refitting, day-of fitting, postwedding storage.” She might as well have added post-divorce repurposing for good measure.
I’d been waiting for my mom to burst into tears when I found the dress of my dreams. And she did, but I’ll never know if it was the sight of her little girl in the bridal gown, or the price tag that broke her down.
My lower lip began to tremble. Twelve thousand dollars? But that was almost my entire wedding budget! Wildly, my mind began to race, trying to divine a way for me to afford the gown. You could have this dress if you fed your guests squirt cheese on Rye Crisps and downgraded the music to a kazoo quartet, I told myself.
You could offer to moonlight here as a salesgirl and work off some of the cost, I thought. I looked at Brigitte and realized I’d never make it in the underworld.
Then I was hit by a lightning bolt of genius. Run! I heard the voice in my head screaming. Run now! While she’s not expecting it! As my legmuscles tensed, I was already calculating how much jail time I could get for stealing a $12,000 dress. I edged toward the door, trying to recall exactly where I’d parked the getaway car. And then I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror—this time from across the room, where the fine details on the dress (including the designer’s name embroidered into the tag) weren’t as apparent.
You know what I looked like?
A bride. A bride in a big, white dress. A young, excited bride who was glowing with happiness over the prospect of decades spent with her soul mate.
The expression on my face—the one I’d been wearing since I met Dave, actually—was the most stunning part of my ensemble, and I knew then that any gown I chose for my wedding day would simply be icing on the cake. But it wasn’t the cake. I was.
Because, folks, here’s the reality: a big white dress is a big white dress. It doesn’t matter if it was designed by Coco Chanel or Koko the Ape. Other than the occasional Rachel Zoe addict, no one is going to be able to tell the difference. Cheesy as it sounds, a happy bride’s smile will shine more brightly than any Swarovski crystal ever could.
So go ahead and wear your dress (or skirt, or pantsuit, or bikini, or skort or whatever bridal outfit you choose) like it came right off a Parisian runway. The only thing people will remember (if they remember anything besides the color) is how you glowed with joy. And maybe some will remember the cut (including you), so if you want a ball gown, get a blasted ball gown because it’s the only chance you’ll have to wear one without looking like you’re in
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