When my bridesmaid Ann found out she was coming out west to California for a week on business, she called and told me she had 10 hours to spend with me- and the first thing she suggested was that we go dress shopping. And so the first foray into the bridal dress extravaganza began.
As I had deemed that I wanted a '20s themed wedding, she suggested that I look up vintage stores in San Francisco. "We'll hit up the Haight" said her excited text message. I began by making a roster of vintage stores in the Haight district of San Francisco, and, using my adept project management skills, called each one to see if they carried old wedding dresses. Most did not, but there were a few that replied in the affirmative.
On the day we had scheduled to go to the city, we woke up early, not wanting to get behind the clock. On our drive up we fantasized about the perfect dress- I spoke about wanting to flatter my curves, we decided longer was better, and I specified that I wanted something made out of 'real' material- nothing petroleum based (although now, looking back at that stipulation, I suppose anything made before the '40s wouldn't be...) Regardless, we were excited.
We parked, found the first vintage store on my list- and entered. A couple of hipsters dressed to the nines in steam-punk apparel acknowledged our presence as we entered. We went straight to the back- where the white dresses in cellophane were prominently hung.
While picking dresses out to try on- I began to have a sinking suspicion that most of them would be too small.
Now let me explain something- I'm not a small girl. I would, as my mother describes me, fit into the category of 'healthy' or more appropriately 'filled-out'. I rock a C cup, an 8 pant size, and big shoes for my 5'6'' frame. I eat what I want and I exercise well over the federal recommended weekly average. I have thick bikers thighs, and, for the most part, I really love and feel comfortable in my body.
That love and comfort however, could not overcome the reality- that try as I might- I did not fit into a single dress on Haight street. Ann and I went to several stores, and at every turn it was the same- she and I would slip, with a half a dozen dresses in hand, into the small dressing booths, and inevitably one of two things would happen a) I wouldn't be able to get the dress over my swimmers' shoulders or b) I would get the dress on, spend several minutes pushing my breasts around, trying to find a position where I could breath and then- upon realizing that the dress looked nothing short of hideous on my frame, it would take a lot of heaving and careful squiggling to get it off. On two occasions- I'm not kidding here- I panicked because I thought I was stuck-destined to gasp the last of my breaths engulfed in satin and lace.
By noon I felt pretty dejected- as if I were the largest bride ever to grace the planet. (My more rational sensibilities of course later disproved this when I came to). It was if any dress made before 1960 was made for a small child wearing a corset. (And upon reflection upon the change in marrying age and expected fashions- perhaps this is more true than not). At any rate, this first half of this dress buying adventure was a complete flop. I had made my mind up that my spend thrift fantasy of a beautiful and unique bridal dress was just that- a fantasy. To get serious I decided I need to march headstrong into one of those places I fear most- an actual bridal shop.
Stay tuned for The Dress Take 2.
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