Wedding Dress Woes

Loyal Reader, you know the fashion maven that I am, or at least try to be.  You looked on while I was in the throes of my Sparkly Butt Challenge.  You have encouraged me to the outlets in search of the elusive trouser jean and you know of my new pursuit of boots.  In the midst of the intensity of the Boot Quest, I have found myself in another, more frantic shopping obsession.

I need a wedding dress.  No, no, don't get excited, Dear Lector, not a bride's dress, but a bride's sister's dress.  I went along for the ride when the bride was trying on dresses.

I learned all about bustles and what types there are (French and not French), and fabrics and designers - who knew that my favorite perfumer, Alfred Sung, also designs dresses?  I learned a new way to pronounce the word "corset" when referring to a style in wedding dresses:  stress the second syllable, as in "Cor-SETT".  I began to rate dresses by the number of bustles they could potentially have, much like the star system in the hospitality industry.  A six-bustle dress was exceptionally fancy, while a one-bustle dress became quite hum-drum in the scope of things.

Crisis Averted

Caught in the Act!

One of the more unpleasant things that I learned was that you should never take anyone to a wedding dress shop who has the proclivity to pick scabs.  In retrospect, this seems extremely obvious.  The first dress shop that we patronized was one which sold designer overstocks.  Your stomach is probably jumping at the thought of me and my shock when I was tapped on the leg and I heard a whisper, "Mama!  I'm bleeding!"  Surrounded by the white landscape of hundreds of beaded and bustled wedding gowns, the bloody finger stood out alarmingly.  A Kleenex tourniquet temporarily solved the problem, but from then on, I was a nervous wreck.  I did not want to face the bridal consultant and have to confess the need for a Band Aid.  By the time we hit the second dress shop, I assumed that the situation was under control.  Photographic evidence contradicts my belief. Once again I heard the ominous, "Uh-oh!"  When I looked over, I was confronted with a bloody leg.  Later examination of pictures taken in the bridal shop confirm that there was indeed intense scab picking in progress in the background.  Once again we were saved by a Kleenex.  Thankfully, by the time we hit the last dress shop, the picker in question had been warned and threatened enough that we did not suffer any more unpleasant surprises.

Next, I was the wing man on the shopping expeditions for the mother of the bride.  I learned about texture and beading, and the importance of the right length.  I was also present when the dress was procured for the flower girl, helping her dive into dress after dress, tying sashes and fluffing skirts.  Now it is my turn.

Suddenly I know the names of designers whose dresses make me swoon (Tadashi Shoji and Adrianna Papell for starters).  I am becoming familiar with shutter pleats and flutter sleeves, tucks and rouches, and the difference between maxi and long.  I stay up late and peer through old contact lenses and smudged reading glasses at page after page of search results on the Internet.  I am unexpectedly and unusually particular about colors such as French Blue, Dew and Smoke.  As I try on dresses and parade out for approval, I have been known to shout grumpily, "I am not wearing a dirndl to the wedding!", as well as, "I look like an old lady on a cruise ship!"  I have become quite discriminating for someone who owns fewer than five dresses.

You are probably wondering, "why all the fuss?"  A dress is a dress is a dress, right?  In most cases, you would be correct, Faithful Friend.  In this case, there are other things to consider.  It has been hinted that siblings of the bride and groom may be expected to take part in said nuptials.  One such person has talents as an orator, another person is a gifted singer.  Dear, Devoted Reader, I am not blessed with such gifts and talents. 

It would be unseemly to use my knack for writing and read an original essay at the ceremony.  Thoughts on sparkly butts or unpleasant microbes spewing from automatically flushing toilets would not be welcome, nor appropriate, on that special day.  Wedding guests will not appreciate being reminded that, while double dipping is practically a sin in our family, it is frowned upon in the continental United States as well.  Nor will they want to hear me waxing poetically about hand sanitizer, raging about invisible forehead bugs, or denouncing freeway exit panhandlers.

My dress problem, then, is this:  I must find a dress so stunning that it will divert attention from the task to which I am assigned, as well as the level of perfection at which I am performing it.  There are standard tasks, such as candle lighter, guest book attendant and usher.  There are tasks which require a few more brains and additional skills, such as dancing with the best man, signing the marriage license, accompanying the bride to the restroom during the reception (this is the one job for which I am well qualified), and bustling the bride's train.  There are many other jobs for which I am not trained, yet I will perform with gusto and without complaint.  Now you understand the necessity of a stunning dress.

Do not think I am shirking my duty, Critical Reader, by not offering my services to the happy couple.  I have put my dignity aside and offered to perform a dramatic puppet show as an interlude in the wedding ceremony.  To date, my proposal has been neither accepted nor rejected.  Stay tuned to find out if I find the perfect dress, if I make the puppets myself, and if the performance will be set to music.