To The Beanpole Dames In The Magazines, You Ain't It, Miss Thang.

I got a surprising call while I was at work the other day. Although, as a general matter, I try to avoid answering my cell during work hours since odds are great that it's my Mother or Future-Mother-in-Law and thus, sure only to upset me, I had a moment of temporary insanity and just picked up the phone without thinking.



Much to my delight it was neither of My Two Moms, but my bridal shop, calling to inform me that my Dress (yes, with a Capital "D," entitled thereto for the extra Dollars it costs) had arrived. This was indeed a surprise because they had previously informed me not to expect the Dress until January because I ordered it so late. (Don't judge - some people just don't get "The Feeling That It's The Dress" and instead these people just try on dress after dress (after dress) because everyone keeps telling them they'll "just know" when it's the "right one" (until finally said people realize that they're going to be 32 by the time they get married and perhaps they just aren't the kind of people who ever "just know" when anything is just the "right" one).

Anyway.

I definitely suspected part of that timeline was faux in an effort (that I respect and applaud) to avoid brides calling up every day to ask if their Dress has arrived. However, despite these suspicions, I was pleasantly surprised to get the call. I quickly selected dates for the first two dress fittings and duly jotted down the instructions: each fitting would be about an hour and I needed to bring my shoes and the undergarments I would be wearing the day of the wedding.



One hour time allotted on my calendar = check!

Shoes = check!

Proper undergarments = ch...not so much.



I took a quick look at the calendar and realized I had about two weekends to find the proper "foundations" for my gown. I don't want to reveal too much about the gown's design itself (because Mr F tends to read this Blog), but I can safely say that I felt smug that this would be sufficient time to find some sort of bustier with sufficient underwire to keep the ladies up and adequately unsmooshed (to avoid my tectonic plates creating cleavage longer (and more treacherous) than the San Adreas fault line).



And while there was a small part of me that was starting to stress about whether the Dress would actually fit me, I pushed those nagging feelings deep down to my inner psyche, much like the disaster preparedness kit hidden in the depths of my broom closet.

Instead, I set off on my maiden voyage to the Mall to find a low-backed strapless bra that would hold my mountains in their individual geographic territories and separate time zones.

Unfortunately, after wading through the lingerie departments of three separate stores, I determined that I must be the only large-chested bride in the world, because every strapless bra I tried on seemed to have the sole goal of pushing my lovely lady lumps first together and then up, so as to give them a lovely "orbs floating on water" effect (and a shimmy measure of 9.2 on the Richter Scale). Nice for a Naughty Nurse Halloween costume. Less nice if I want my groom to look at my er, eyes.



So I continued to search for a bra, which somehow seemed to also involve a barrage of insulting insinuations by sales clerks regarding the size of my love handles. Last I checked, if someone asks for a bra, that doesn't directly translate to a request for body armor and unsolicited commentary about the ability of a garment to get rid of my back fat. I understand the holiday bonuses will be slim this year, but is it really necessary to tell me that I'm not...all in the name of a little extra commission cash in the pocket?



The closest I ultimately got to an appropriate undergarment is a $90 sausage casing with underwire. Now I know I should be happy about the full body armor that will "smooth" me (as every single sales clerk touted), but honestly, I think it's going to be difficult enough to go to the bathroom in the wedding dress, I really don't want the extra complication of having to pee through the hole in the bottom of my bodysuit. (Yes, really - Spanx has a goddamn HOLE in the bottom. It doesn't even snap. It's just material you are supposed to move to the side, like the cheap fabric curtain in the hospital, separating the beds.)



So at the end of the day, I drove home armed only with a second spandex skin and a negative body image.



What's funny is that thus far I have been somewhat successful at not being diet-obsessed. For the past ten months, I just focused on being consistent about going to the gym and eating healthy most of the time (dinners of Triscuits and brie aside, and with the caveat that wine is obviously a health food - I swear I read it in Shape Magazine - look it up!). But the point is, I've been mostly healthy and definitely not focused and/or stressed about my waistline.

Until now.


All of a sudden, the message that my dress had arrived seemed to be a wake up call of another kind. It was as if I had received a telegraph that said: YOU CANNOT GAIN ANY WEIGHT. (A cruel telegram indeed.)


Full translation: you are about to be measured for a dress that must fit you the most perfect of any garment you have ever owned because this is the high point of your attractiveness in every one's mind and it's really all downhill from here. If you can't manage to look good on This One Day, then gosh, you're a mess.



Well of course from the moment I realized that I need to actually fit into a garment that now exists in this world (rather than being a hypothetical garment that could be changed in size should need be), I cannot stop thinking about the fact that I should not be EATING EXTRA FOOD. And since I know I should NOT eat extra food, my stomach has grumbled incessantly for the past ninety-six hours. (So yes, perhaps I was an eensy bit sensitive to the sales ladies bringing me in boatloads of completely unsolicited Spanx).



And in fact, after four days of deep thought, I have now come to firmly believe that this is in fact some sort of conspiracy by the dress shop. Full well knowing that Thanksgiving is just around the corner, they are performing some sort of social experiment on me and my stomach (yes, we are two separate entities) to see just how much weight a bride can gain in the weeks between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years (because let's not forget that the joyous holiday trifecta of Egg Nog, Hot Buttered Rum, and Champagne all have calories too).


Sweet Plymouth Rock, people. I'm in for some serious trouble. Maybe I should buy a back-up wedding dress. I've seen Project Runway. They can do amazing things with potato sacks these days.