weight. You know I don’t mean it, it’s just that you have to learn how to control yourself. Besides, God made us in his own image, and He loves each of us, no matter what we may look like on the outside.”
Scratch that. The worst part about this was getting naked in front of my mother under fluorescent lights.
“Forget this,” I hissed at her. “This is a living nightmare, and you’re not helping. You said you wouldn’t do this to me. I refuse to even touch anything she brings back. All I wanted was to try on a few dresses that I like. But you won’t even let me do that! And I didn’t come here to be insulted, either.”
“Oh, lighten up. You’re getting hysterical. Greta didn’t mean to insult you.” So now it was Greta. “This is supposed to be fun, Evelyn. And who knows? Maybe she knows what she’s doing. Did you ever think of that?”
“Mom, please, ” I whined.
“Nobody’s saying we have to buy a dress here. But we did make an appointment, and Greta hasn’t done anything but try to help. I’m sorry, but it never hurts to try. If you don’t like anything, we’ll leave.”
Before I could insist we do just that, Greta returned with another old woman in tow, both of them carrying as many dresses as their osteoporotic arms could handle. They hung them up on a rack.
“Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.
“I will not wear that.”
“It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.
“Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.
“Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”
“I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”
“Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.
“Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.
“How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”
“How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”
It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghettistraps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent ( Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).
Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”
She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.
The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience you never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant
Scratch that. The worst part about this was getting naked in front of my mother under fluorescent lights.
“Forget this,” I hissed at her. “This is a living nightmare, and you’re not helping. You said you wouldn’t do this to me. I refuse to even touch anything she brings back. All I wanted was to try on a few dresses that I like. But you won’t even let me do that! And I didn’t come here to be insulted, either.”
“Oh, lighten up. You’re getting hysterical. Greta didn’t mean to insult you.” So now it was Greta. “This is supposed to be fun, Evelyn. And who knows? Maybe she knows what she’s doing. Did you ever think of that?”
“Mom, please, ” I whined.
“Nobody’s saying we have to buy a dress here. But we did make an appointment, and Greta hasn’t done anything but try to help. I’m sorry, but it never hurts to try. If you don’t like anything, we’ll leave.”
Before I could insist we do just that, Greta returned with another old woman in tow, both of them carrying as many dresses as their osteoporotic arms could handle. They hung them up on a rack.
“Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.
“I will not wear that.”
“It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.
“Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.
“Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”
“I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”
“Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.
“Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.
“How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”
“How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”
It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghettistraps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent ( Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).
Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”
She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.
The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience you never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant
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