like what they call ESPN. I can tell just by looking at a girl which one she’s going to buy! Been working here near fifty years, you know!”
Mom grinned, pleased that we’d stumbled onto such a quaint character. At the top of the stairs, Greta directed us toward some ratty old slippers and a couple of overstuffed but thread-bare French-provincial-style chairs.
“Evelyn is very particular about fashion,” Mom offered loudly. “She’s brought some clippings from magazines so that you can see what she likes.”
“I may have a wonky eye, Mrs. Mays, but I can hear you just fine. No need to yell. And I think it’s best if we leave the pictures aside, for now. If fifty years has taught me anything, it’s thatwhat we like isn’t necessarily what looks good on us. Now just you wait here while I see which room’s available,” she said and darted across the vast expanse of pink carpet and disappeared behind a maze of mirrored dressing rooms.
“Smooth, Mom,” I said as we sat down.
“Was I talking loudly?”
“You were yelling. I want to show her my pictures. I don’t trust her to choose something for me.”
“Be patient, Evelyn. Let’s give her a chance. I’m sure she knows her stuff,” she said, picking up an alarmingly old copy of something called Brooklyn Brides.
I slumped down in my chair and took it all in. All around the room, other pairs of mothers and daughters waited in chairs, whispering to each other and nodding. Some pored through the rows of plastic-wrapped gowns, under the watchful eyes of Gretas of their own. Everyone seemed perfectly coiffed, in their pastel twin sets and pearls. I looked over at Mom. Her damp black hair, dramatically streaked with gray for as long as I can remember, was plastered to her forehead, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She was slouching, and her beige cotton blouse—with an I Heart NY embroidered on the front pocket—was missing a button. I could see the elastic waistband of her pants. Why the hell does she need an elastic waistband? She weighs about 103 pounds. She looked like she’d made her own clothes. But I have to admit, even I felt a bit out of place in my bright tangerine pantsuit ( Cosmopolitan, November: “Orange: The New Neutral”). Not only that, but I was definitely the fattest bride-to-be in the whole joint.
Greta interrupted my reverie with a hurried wave. “Come on, let’s get you undressed,” she said as we walked across the floor into one of the large dressing rooms. “Did you bring a foundation garment or are we going to build something into the dress?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Do I really need something like that? I mean, I plan to lose some weight and—”
“Oh, no! You’re not one of them, are you? If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times,” Greta sighed. “We’ll get you asmart dress that fits you NOW. Most girls don’t lose half the weight they plan to, and end up with gowns that need to be taken out later, at quite an expense I might add.”
I glared at my mom, who was nodding treasonously in agreement.
“And I’m sure your fiancé thinks you’re quite beautiful as you are, or else we wouldn’t be here!” she continued. “So now, all I need to know from you is whether you prefer something traditional or a little more modern?”
“Traditional. She likes traditional,” Mom said.
“I do not,” I snapped. “Something modern, please.”
“So you have a seat Mrs. Mays, and Evelyn, you get undressed, and I’ll be right back with a girdle and a few dresses.”
I don’t know which was worse—the fact that my mother had completely betrayed me, that a blind woman was going to choose my wedding gown, or that I was about to put on a public girdle.
“I’m leaving,” I said simply, and made for the door.
“Evelyn, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I gave birth to you, for heaven’s sake. I know every part of you. And I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve put pressure on you to lose
Mom grinned, pleased that we’d stumbled onto such a quaint character. At the top of the stairs, Greta directed us toward some ratty old slippers and a couple of overstuffed but thread-bare French-provincial-style chairs.
“Evelyn is very particular about fashion,” Mom offered loudly. “She’s brought some clippings from magazines so that you can see what she likes.”
“I may have a wonky eye, Mrs. Mays, but I can hear you just fine. No need to yell. And I think it’s best if we leave the pictures aside, for now. If fifty years has taught me anything, it’s thatwhat we like isn’t necessarily what looks good on us. Now just you wait here while I see which room’s available,” she said and darted across the vast expanse of pink carpet and disappeared behind a maze of mirrored dressing rooms.
“Smooth, Mom,” I said as we sat down.
“Was I talking loudly?”
“You were yelling. I want to show her my pictures. I don’t trust her to choose something for me.”
“Be patient, Evelyn. Let’s give her a chance. I’m sure she knows her stuff,” she said, picking up an alarmingly old copy of something called Brooklyn Brides.
I slumped down in my chair and took it all in. All around the room, other pairs of mothers and daughters waited in chairs, whispering to each other and nodding. Some pored through the rows of plastic-wrapped gowns, under the watchful eyes of Gretas of their own. Everyone seemed perfectly coiffed, in their pastel twin sets and pearls. I looked over at Mom. Her damp black hair, dramatically streaked with gray for as long as I can remember, was plastered to her forehead, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She was slouching, and her beige cotton blouse—with an I Heart NY embroidered on the front pocket—was missing a button. I could see the elastic waistband of her pants. Why the hell does she need an elastic waistband? She weighs about 103 pounds. She looked like she’d made her own clothes. But I have to admit, even I felt a bit out of place in my bright tangerine pantsuit ( Cosmopolitan, November: “Orange: The New Neutral”). Not only that, but I was definitely the fattest bride-to-be in the whole joint.
Greta interrupted my reverie with a hurried wave. “Come on, let’s get you undressed,” she said as we walked across the floor into one of the large dressing rooms. “Did you bring a foundation garment or are we going to build something into the dress?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Do I really need something like that? I mean, I plan to lose some weight and—”
“Oh, no! You’re not one of them, are you? If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times,” Greta sighed. “We’ll get you asmart dress that fits you NOW. Most girls don’t lose half the weight they plan to, and end up with gowns that need to be taken out later, at quite an expense I might add.”
I glared at my mom, who was nodding treasonously in agreement.
“And I’m sure your fiancé thinks you’re quite beautiful as you are, or else we wouldn’t be here!” she continued. “So now, all I need to know from you is whether you prefer something traditional or a little more modern?”
“Traditional. She likes traditional,” Mom said.
“I do not,” I snapped. “Something modern, please.”
“So you have a seat Mrs. Mays, and Evelyn, you get undressed, and I’ll be right back with a girdle and a few dresses.”
I don’t know which was worse—the fact that my mother had completely betrayed me, that a blind woman was going to choose my wedding gown, or that I was about to put on a public girdle.
“I’m leaving,” I said simply, and made for the door.
“Evelyn, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I gave birth to you, for heaven’s sake. I know every part of you. And I’m sorry if you feel that I’ve put pressure on you to lose
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