Monday, September 25, 2006

The Devil Peddles White...

I'm only getting married once.

After wedding dress shopping last weekend, that statement transformed from being a goal to being a mission. More than a mission; It's a fact.

Let me lay it out for you:

Having been through the experience several times with my friends, I knew not to get my heart set on anything in particular before trying on dresses. You really can only tell so much from a picture in a magazine, so I did some research, and had a vague idea of what I'd like to try on before I went. More than anything, I determined strict rules for what I did not want:

  • Nothing strapless (didn't need to be messing with my top all night)
  • Nothing with sleeves (because, hello, it's not 1985)
  • No elaborate train (too much to deal with)
  • No veil (can't stand the thought of spending $300 for something that's going to annoy me all day)

Keep this list of no-nos in mind. They'll be relevent later.

That being established, my mom, step-mom, flower girl and maid-of-honor travelled to the seventh circle of hell, a.k.a., David's Bridal. It was there that we met the most confused woman in the world. She would have made an excellent addition to the president's cabinet.

We were made to wait for about 15 minutes, even though we had an appointment, but we figured, "No big deal. We've got all day." Thank God.

The bored salewoman at the front of the store asked for my sizes (why she didn't just take my exact measurements and erase the guesswork, I'll never know). When it finally came time to try things on, I was given a strapless body suit and slip, neither of which were my size.

Right about now you're thinking, "Don't they have your size written down on a piece of paper you just filled out for them?" I know... It gets better.

We asked for a larger size. She brings us a smaller one.

We said no sleeves. No strapless. She brings both.

We said no veil. We argue for 15 minutes about it, before I finally consent to put it on, so I can reitterate my reasons for hating it.

In a room roughly the size of a shoebox, and the approximate temperature of hell's sauna, my mother and I wrestled with dresses that made me look like, if I may borrow a line from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, a snow beast.

Fortunately, the torture was over quickly, because in the store that boasts the biggest selection in the country, they only had three dresses in my size. THREE.

Luckily, we liked the third one a lot, and ended up purchasing it, even though the train is longer than I would have liked. However, the "Eureka!" moment, the one where the moms get teary-eyed, and the bride says, "Oh my God, I'm really getting married," never came, because we were too busy being pissed off.

We left the store quickly, after reminding them MANY times of the exact size, style and color that I wanted them to order. Knowing my luck, my pale pink, size-zero tutu will arrive shortly.

I'm only getting married once. Mark my words.