Sunday, November 13, 2005
The Dress
I went shopping for a bridal gown with my mom yesterday at the David's Bridal a few blocks from here.
You don't just go in and look at stuff hanging on the racks. They take down your information, assign you a consultant, and send you to one of the fitting rooms. The sales consultant provides you with the appropriate underwear (I must say, I was surprised at the sizes required and can only say that at least the resulting bustline will ensure that I have someplace to set my hors d'oeuvre plate if I need to put it somewhere) and then starts to bring dresses which may or may not match what it is you had in mind.
When you try a dress on, there are no mirrors in the fitting room so you have to go into the public area and stand on one of the pedestals in front of the mirrored doors so that everybody in the fitting area can see you. Then they find a veil and headpiece to complete the look. She kept trying different head things, and I asked, "Um, could we worry about the accessories later and try some more dresses?"
Some were too "busy." Some had weird pleats of fabric around the midsection. Some gapped in funny places. I finally tried on one that I had seen in the booklet and decided was a distinct possibility; it was very lovely and simple and faintly Jane Austenlike.
Then I tried on the princess dress.
You know, the one with the yards and yards of fabric, clean lines, and embroidery that added just enough interest without being tacky or too much. I laughed at how much fabric was involved, and it looked astonishing. The elderly lady sitting outside somebody else's dressing room declared it was beautiful and I had to get that one! The consultant thought she might have found the winner, because the dress made me smile so. I thought I would need birds to hold up my train.
As much as one hates to be trapped by stereotype, I confess I have secretly always wanted to have the princess moment. The one where everybody looks at me and imagines there's never been anyone lovelier.
I really didn't know how I'd be able to choose between the two top contenders. One was simple and practical and lovely; the other was a stunning confection of 30 pounds of fabric. Finally my mom went out to help the saleslady scour the racks for the one or two other dresses in the book that I wanted to see, and I said it was up to her to find the one that keeps me from having to choose between the other two.
This is exactly what happened.
See, these dresses never really look like much on the hanger. The photo gives you no idea what they look like in real life. I ended up trying on something I wouldn't have otherwise, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. It will need to be hemmed and slightly adjusted, but otherwise looks as though it were made for me.
So I'm not going to have the bird-carried sweeping train, but I'll have that moment where people look at me and are amazed that the trouser-wearing librarian can actually look like that.
The dress is in my front closet, and Brian has been warned not to go looking for it.
"It's bad luck," I told him.
He promised he wouldn't peek. "The last thing we need is bad luck," he commented. "I ride a motorcycle and you have cancer."
We both laughed hysterically for several minutes at that one.
You don't just go in and look at stuff hanging on the racks. They take down your information, assign you a consultant, and send you to one of the fitting rooms. The sales consultant provides you with the appropriate underwear (I must say, I was surprised at the sizes required and can only say that at least the resulting bustline will ensure that I have someplace to set my hors d'oeuvre plate if I need to put it somewhere) and then starts to bring dresses which may or may not match what it is you had in mind.
When you try a dress on, there are no mirrors in the fitting room so you have to go into the public area and stand on one of the pedestals in front of the mirrored doors so that everybody in the fitting area can see you. Then they find a veil and headpiece to complete the look. She kept trying different head things, and I asked, "Um, could we worry about the accessories later and try some more dresses?"
Some were too "busy." Some had weird pleats of fabric around the midsection. Some gapped in funny places. I finally tried on one that I had seen in the booklet and decided was a distinct possibility; it was very lovely and simple and faintly Jane Austenlike.
Then I tried on the princess dress.
You know, the one with the yards and yards of fabric, clean lines, and embroidery that added just enough interest without being tacky or too much. I laughed at how much fabric was involved, and it looked astonishing. The elderly lady sitting outside somebody else's dressing room declared it was beautiful and I had to get that one! The consultant thought she might have found the winner, because the dress made me smile so. I thought I would need birds to hold up my train.
As much as one hates to be trapped by stereotype, I confess I have secretly always wanted to have the princess moment. The one where everybody looks at me and imagines there's never been anyone lovelier.
I really didn't know how I'd be able to choose between the two top contenders. One was simple and practical and lovely; the other was a stunning confection of 30 pounds of fabric. Finally my mom went out to help the saleslady scour the racks for the one or two other dresses in the book that I wanted to see, and I said it was up to her to find the one that keeps me from having to choose between the other two.
This is exactly what happened.
See, these dresses never really look like much on the hanger. The photo gives you no idea what they look like in real life. I ended up trying on something I wouldn't have otherwise, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever worn. It will need to be hemmed and slightly adjusted, but otherwise looks as though it were made for me.
So I'm not going to have the bird-carried sweeping train, but I'll have that moment where people look at me and are amazed that the trouser-wearing librarian can actually look like that.
The dress is in my front closet, and Brian has been warned not to go looking for it.
"It's bad luck," I told him.
He promised he wouldn't peek. "The last thing we need is bad luck," he commented. "I ride a motorcycle and you have cancer."
We both laughed hysterically for several minutes at that one.
Labels: Brian, David's Bridal, dress, gown, mom, wedding
