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.

Come On, Filene

After hearing about this miraculous event called "The Filene's Basement Sale" (and more popularly and disturbingly known as "The Running of the Brides"), I resolved to participate. So yes, my mother and I found ourselves at 5 a.m. in Towson, Maryland sitting on a line with at least 300 women seated in front of us. As we walked to the back of the line, I looked at the women who had been waiting for hours, sitting in camping chairs, holding mugs of coffee, and huddling together in gaggles of seven and eight, each member of the group wearing fuschia-colored or lime-green T-shirts that said things like "The Bride" or "Tara's Bridesmaid!!". I realized that I was far out of my league. As my mom and I did the Filene's Basement walk of shame past the women who had been sitting there all night, we got the evil eye: I could feel them judging whether we would be faster at grabbing a dress and stronger at holding on to it than their group. It reminded me a lot of the prison walk when the new inmates are brought into a penitentary and the current prisoners judge whether they will be a threat to their current fiefdom within the prison walls. (Hey, I have been unduly influenced by the "Shawshank Redemption", so cut me some slack on my analogies.) A meager group of two we were: me at 31 years old along with my 55 year old mom. I can safely say we were judged no match. Good call by the 250 lovely ladies sitting in front of us.

So we sat on line and actually chatted with a very sweet girl behind us who brought along 2 other women and we decided to join forces to form our own coalition (neon-colored t-shirts bearing too much information aside). Rumors floated up and down the line of women like high school. "They're not letting people in at 8 am because the dresses aren't here yet." "If you bring a little kid, they'll let you in early." "They won't allow you to bring your camping chair folded up because they're afraid you'll hit someone with it." This last one actually turned out to be true. And soon enough security guards were coming through and collecting chairs from ladies sitting on them.

Then we get an informational sheet. It included little nuggets of information on how to navigate the sale. Savvy suggestions like "don't be alarmed if there are no dresses when you arrive; we recommend you leave, go have a cup of coffee, and return a few hours later, when dresses people don't want are returned to the racks." Riiiight. So I got up at 4 a.m. to sit on line for 3 hours in an effort to leave the store, spend $4 on some crappy ass coffee and return to contemplate purchasing for my wedding all of the dresses discarded by women who thought they were ugly. Thanks, Filene. You are very wise.

At ten minutes to eight there began some movement among the women. People began to pack up their belongings. There was a palpable electricity in the air. Engagement ring prongs were sharpened and veils knotted in noose formation, readying for the war. Like some sort of estrogen-fueled wave at a stadium, we began to stand up one after another. After another few minutes we began to move. At first we began to shuffle forward, talking with each other about our strategy and how crazy this was. But then we noticed that women were infringing on our space, pushing around the corners and coming from behind to try to cut in front of us! (Yes, I know how juvenile that sounds - but that is exactly what it was. I was cut in line.) My mother and the 3-strong-girl-squad we previously merged with locked arms to form a wall to keep out line cutting intruders. Then we stopped. What was going on? Why the hold up? Then we realized. No one had been allowed in the store yet at all. The initial movement was just to close the gaps and push everyone as far forward as possible so the true running could be like shoulder-to-shoulder connubial cattle. And then it began. We started to shuffle and then jog. And then women were everywhere, cutting in line, pushing and shoving, and most of all - trying to push into the doors of a bargain basement discount store. I broke away from my group and ran into the store. And I couldn't believe my fucking eyes: there wasn't a damn dress left on the racks. The doors had opened approximately two minutes ago.

I spied a dress laying on the floor and sprinted over to pick it up. As soon as I had a hand on, so did two other women who started pulling at it. So I did what I had to do.

I dropped the damn thing and walked away. No dress, wedding day or otherwise, is worth a girlfight and my dignity (which already had a lot of recovery to do from my dash into the store).

Ultimately, our coalition was able to get a bunch of dresses to try on. And you know what? They were fug-tastic. You got it: U-G-L-Y. $249 dollars of hideousness. All the talk of designer dresses? If they were there (which I'm sure they were, I don't doubt you, Filene), I didn't see 'em. And so for two hours I stripped down to my skivvies in the middle of a major department store to try on dresses. (Did I not mention this part? - when you have 250 people vying for four dressing rooms, the recommended course of action is to drop trou in another department (preferably by a mirror) so you can try on dresses more quickly and discard or barter for other dresses as needed. Let me tell you how shocked the man who was there to buy a pair of sweat socks for his company baseball game was.)

After two hours elapsed I simply called it a day. Dunzo. Filene's Basement and the hordes of angry (and more dedicated) brides had beat E&E and Mom to a pulp. Mmmm. All this bridal brawling made me want a mimosa.