I was recently a bridesmaid for a bride with approximately the same life expectancy as my own. Together, our ages add up to way more than 100. Suffice it to say, we skewered the demographics at the bridal salon when we went to have our dresses fitted. Or in my case, when I went to get my dress and suppress a fit.
There were more yards of periwinkle satin involved in the construction of “Big Blue” than drape the entire cast of the Ice Follies during a salute to the Snow Queen. Because the wedding was a last minute major upgrade from a civil ceremony, there was no time for alterations, so the dress added insult to injury by being two sizes too big. No problem, I was told. Just cover up the top with the matching stole. (The bride found a lovely dress that fit her perfectly. Of course she did.)
Because the aforementioned bride is very dear to my heart, I offered no overt resistance. I focused instead on her obvious joy, and more or less ignored my own misgivings at appearing in public in lots of shiny material, and where unrestrained photographs would be taken. I would regret this later, especially after I was also informed that Estee Lauder does not make a spackle.
The wedding was scheduled for 9:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. At approximately 7:30, I removed Big Blue from her protective plastic bag, and began to get ready. By 8:00, I was still attempting to find a pair of pantyhose that would do their job without turning everything from my waist down into a giant slingshot, and that would permit me to walk unassisted, at least for short distances. At 8:15, my husband David attempted to lend his assistance. Some time later, the room appeared to fill with adults determined to help, but whose combined engineering skills could not create the force and logistics required to (1) get me into pantyhose, and (2) get me and the pantyhose into Big Blue. However, by 8:30 and five destroyed pairs of pantyhose later, we were in business. And more to the point, I was in Big Blue.
All in all, it was a lovely evening. The bride cried. The groom cried. And I didn’t, even after my husband emailed pictures of the celebration to the immediate world and a couple of relatives that I thought were dead already.
But I’ll be in therapy for awhile for PTSD — Post Traumatic Satin Dress.