I grabbed the dress, strapless undergarments, crinoline and fancypants shoes and sashayed out of the house in an impressively good mood. My first wedding dress fitting, oh boy, superior!
I figured it would take about 40 minutes or so. They’d mark where it needed to be hemmed and determine where the bustle would be attached for the train. They’d say “awwww, you must be so excited about your wedding!” and I’d smile and nod while pointing to the sparkly tiara. We’d wind up talking about profoundly important, life-altering things like place cards and out of town guest bags. Then we’d chat about the weather. Afterwards I’d glide home, belch and watch Americas Most Wanted with my lovedumpling and the fur-enabled. After all, it’s Saturday. Status quo, you know?
So.
No.
I somehow suspected that things were off to a bad start at the dress shop when they dumped me into a room in the back and told me to get into my heavy, poufy, 800 buttons, zippers and tiny eye hooks dress all by myself. Yeah. Never mind that it took two people to help me get into it the day I bought it! I’d already been waiting 15 minutes to get someone to actually come over in the first place, despite the fact that I had an appointment and there was hardly anyone in the store to begin with. As if that wasn’t annoying enough an employee finally rolled on over to make herself useful but felt profoundly compelled to loudly inquire about the bra I was sporting. You know, the one that I’d bought at the store when I bought the dress?
“What size bra is THAT? It doesn’t seem to fit, you need a bigger cup size!” There were plenty of people in the dressing area and frankly, my bago situation and subsequent hooter puff is really none of their business. My bloated funbag conundrum stems from the pains of womanhood. And I told her so. Some chick in the dressing area snickered. Her friend provided a good-natured eye roll. Suddenly every woman in the room was checking out my future baby feeders. Talk about unnerving! It was marginally amusing but the humor was marred by the fact that I suddenly felt horribly self conscious.
Another employee came by to take my measurements for the actual dress alterations. She took down the dimensions of my bust, waist and hips. The height of my shoes. That story. I stared down at the piece of paper and cringed.
The unfortunate temporary hooter puff made me feel badly. Suddenly I didn’t want to be standing in front of a bunch of dressing area mirrors, surrounded by strangers who were clearly insensitive to my plight while some 95 pound teenager read the dimensions of my body aloud for the whole room of brides to overhear. It was hot in there. I felt uneasy, tired and strange. When I first bought the dress I’d twirled around in it, beaming. Today I didn’t even want to look in the mirror and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the damn store.
My gentleman caller was very sweet and comforting when I got home and cried like a big, girly nerd. And when I told my Momma what happened she said that they’d behaved very unprofessionally. Brides shouldn’t be made to feel uncomfortable.
When all is said and done, the dress will be beautiful.
And I’ll look swell in it.
But I could have done without the dramatic, lets-make-the-bride-feel-bad for no discernible reason drama of the day.
One thing is for sure - I’ll never shop at this store again!
Next weekend?
We pick out the reception flowers!
Which should really be far less stressful….
