I need first to express my sorrow at the neglected state of this blog of late, and wholeheartedly promise that it shant continue after the wedding. 19 days. I feel consumed. The sheer terror at putting on this event of love, music and theatrics, a scale on which I feel no way qualified… I am saturated in it – the fretting. A soaking rag. It creeps up between the spaces, filling the negatives…
I had a dress fitting you see. Several in fact. More to be done. Seamstresses get all sorts of attached for some reason and keep drawing you back to the room littered with pins and mirrors. Don’t lose any weight, now don’t gain any either.
“No more skinny!”
“No more cookie!”
It was too long, my dress. One thing that continues to come back and surprise me over and over, a metronome swing? The experts don’t step in. I’m a bride without my training wheels and none of my mothers for hire seem to be quick to hop off the playground bench and right me before I topple. YOU PEOPLE DO THIS ALL THE TIME! I’VE NEVER PLANNED A WEDDING BEFORE! I strode circles about the unnaturally lit room behind a bridal shop off I-95, struggling not to step on the scalloped hem of the dress.
The heavy dress that really needed a hoop skirt, not a crinoline in order to achieve the fullness in the designer’s photos – one more conclusion I was left to come upon by my lonesome, no help from the pros.
I wasn’t alone that day, no thanks to myself. I had every intention of arriving unattended. It seemed an unnecessary weight to place upon the already laden shoulders of my local bridesmaids. I mean, I’m trying on a dress for the 17th time. No need to call forth the calvary. I love these girls, hence my asking attendance and dress buying of them. Fitting hovers towards the bottom of enjoyable pre-wedding activities for me, so why demand their simultaneous bother?
At the 11th hour, one such friend asked if anyone was joining me for this, yet another mirror scrutiny, and if not, could she come along? Perplexed but amenable, I agreed.
We arrived 6 minutes late – traffic can only be predicted to be unpredictable ’round these parts. There was another bride in the room, in a chair next to her mom. She held a used up copy of The Knot magazine and the biggest leather bag I’d ever seen a tiny girl tote. Her hair was light blonde and her expression was delight and nerves. As she reemerged from beyond the canvas curtain in her lace A-line romance, her mother flitted around her hem, straightening the taupe bow at her back, speaking her displeasure at the way the bust failed to flatter, directing the seamstress to adjust this piece and make sure that this looks that way.
My thoughts flew all the way to Pennsylvania, to my own mother, for so many reasons unable to be here directing the seamstress with her opinions of my own silk satin fairytale. Back in Florida, it was time to wriggle into my own dress.
It was my dear friend who sprang from that bench as I tottered, toes tangled in tulle, and pointed out that it was too long and showing the seamstress where perhaps we needed to tuck it under. I remember thinking to myself Ok, it’s a little long, but no big deal. I’m going to have to pin the front up somehow. Maybe get taller shoes. No, can’t do that, these are already a little tall for dancing with Dad. Ok, maybe more crinoline. This giant $84 one they sold me still doesn’t seem to be holding up under the weight of my dress anyway. That will lift it. I’ll figure out something… I discovered myself surprised when she suggested it be further altered by the expert I had not moments ago handed a healthy stack of $20s to.
Jeepers was I not going to even suggest that she fix it? Should she not have noticed my difficulty in walking? Was she simply contented to send me down in the aisle, a YouTube video waiting to happen? What was wrong with the both of us?
I realized as I watched the blonde and her hawk-eyed mother, that I really did need someone there with me. Had I gone alone, I’d have stood there, all cream and beads and extra inch at the hem, and cried.
I know my mother would sell all of her Stephen King books to be here with me for these moments. But living is ever a comedy of circumstance and what is it that they say, whomever you imagine they to be?
It takes a village?
It’s taken a village to raise this girl, this lucky girl. How lost would she surely have found herself without them? And what a girl she’s growing up to be, thanks in large part to each and every one of them, and to all of you.