Cursed Tongue: Barenaked Bridesmaid

Posted by CursedTongue on July 8, 2007

I recently had the utter joy of choosing my own bridesmaid dress. My cousin asked me to stand up at her wedding and told her wedding party they could wear whatever dress they wanted. As long as it was formal and floor length. You’d think this would be a bridesmaid dream job. What is there to complain about if you can pick your own dress?

There will be no mounds of pink chiffon, no bow on your ass the size of a Buick, nothing that’s cut so that any woman will look like she’s smuggling 15 pounds of produce. Unless that’s exactly the look that the hypothetically relieved bridesmaid was going for. And it would completely short circuit the inevitable, “That dress is so pretty, you could wear it again,” conversation that happens at weddings. The victimized bridesmaid nods while secretly gagging because she knows, she has to be nice. It isn’t her special day.

I was happy to hear the “Pick your own” command. Mostly because I had a bridesmaid dress in the back of my closet. Covered from dust and the gaze of human sight under a Glad bag. The best part was that I stood up for that wedding after my own marriage. Which meant that I was already fat when I was fitted for the dress.

Regardless, I knew I had to try it on. I struggled with yards of heavy satin, itchy tulle lining and the confusion of spaghetti straps paired with lacing. It’s an ordeal even getting formal dresses on. But it’s far worse when it’s your “fat” dress and the zipper stalls halfway between your waist and your armpit. You’re itchy, sweaty and horrified, and you have to pry your husband away from his game of Halo for an emergency extraction.

Luckily, it was February and the wedding was not until June. I had plenty of time to exercise and stop eating cheese.

The year was creeping into May and the dress zipped, but I looked more like a magenta stuffed sausage than a bridesmaid. Spandex foundation garments can do amazing things, but this was beyond the miracle of modern fabric technology. Maybe if I ate nothing but oatmeal with raisin and salads with balsamic vinegar from May 9th to the June 15th W Day, I would have made it. But it would have been a very bitchy day.

I realized it was time to give in. There is no open bar big enough to help me deal with diet grumps and my relatives. (Unless you are reading my blog, in which case, rest assured that you’re my favorite and I don’t mean you.) I had to go — gasp  — to the Mall.

The mall is not a happy place for me. The mall is crowded. The mall smells like a thousand floral pixies vomited body spray, candles, lotion and room deodorizer. There are kids with Heelys screaming down the promenade. (In the middle of May, in the middle of the weekday why aren’t the school aged free-range cuties in school, instead of at the mall, annoying me?) There are attack salespeople at every kiosk. There are unhelpful, condescending saleswomen wandering through the evening gown department. And don’t forget those evil, evil Cinnabons.

Evening gown shopping isn’t an Olympic event, but it should be. Searching the racks for something with an appropriate length, size, color and shape for a particular figure is bad enough. But then the contestant has to carry around the maybes and try them all on. The athlete must be strong enough to lift the dress over her or his head and yet flexible enough to zip and unzip the gown with out tearing the dainty fabric.

So three hours, four stores, one dress and one frozen yogurt later, I walk out of the mall feeling pretty good. Until I get home and realize I need shoes, support garments, mascara that isn’t breeding eye cooties and a matching handbag. I was complaining to my loving husband who felt the need to point out that “No one will be looking at you.” But I argued that they would if I showed up without shoes, a dress or a gift-wrapped small appliance.

It turned out that the wedding was lovely. The strongest thing I had to drink was a Shirley Temple. And it was one of the groomsman that ended up naked, and apparently became confused as to the function of decorative fountains.

- Sarah Letnes

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Tags: humor, wedding

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