The second stab at dress shopping came later the same day, in a very different location in San Francisco. Having exhausted seemingly all vintage possibilities in the Haight- we took a different approach and headed to China Town.
Designer Dresses. Discount store.
Now- I don't know about you- but I had NO idea how expensive wedding dresses are retail. The average price of a bridal gown must hover around a grand, while designer dresses retail for something between 8-12K. Yes. You read that correct.
Perhaps it's just my spend thrift ways- but a price tag of that nature makes me a little queazy. Or, more literally, as my partner put it, it brings the thought to mind that you could buy a pretty nice Toyota Truck for that price.
So- enter the supposedly discount store.
Ann and I arrive in the late afternoon and are given small tags to put at the top of the dresses we like. And we begin to walk among the rungs of dresses, each more beautiful than the next. We are surrounded by creamy silk and lace chiffon. I try not to read the price tags as we choose the dresses. I don't want to discourage myself before I start. Once we get a stack of 10, I slip into the dressing room. The attendant follows me, as, I am told, these dresses are so precious a professional needs to be physically in the room at all times to help me in and out of them. I gulp.
The first few fit, and, though none of them is the dress, I am relieved that we have found a store that finally carries my size. (The thought that I won't have to walk down the isle in a paper bag takes a great weight off my shoulders.)
I try on a Dior. A Dolce and Gabana. An Oscar De La Renta. I feel like I am at the Oscars. Each dress more beautiful than the last. The lighting in the room is great. There is a big mirror and a wooden stage to stand on. Ann is having a blast, talking up the attendants, and snapping pictures. The last dress that I try on is a Monique Lhuillier, and I can tell from the moment that she zips me into it, that I'm in trouble.
I step out of the dressing room and look at myself. This may be the most beautiful dress I have ever seen, I think to myself. Ann gasps- the type of audible sound that can only mean one thing- whoa. You're actually getting married... She and I exchange glances and we both know this dress is gorgeous, it fits me perfectly, and, it just might be the one.
After a couple of turns around the wooden stage, I head back into the dressing room with the knowledge that I really want this dress. I don't even know how much it's going to cost at this point, but as soon as I see the price tag, I break out into a cold sweat. The dress is 2,500 dollars. American. Cash. It is at this point that I begin to panic.
As I get dressed in my street clothes, the attendant is chatty and confident. She knows that this dress originally retailed for 8,000, and that someone will buy it within the week if it's not me. As I sweat and tell her I need to think about it, she sweetly writes down the name of the designer and the dress, as well as the size. She knows that I'll google it when I leave the store and realize I'll never find the same dress at a better price. She has the keys to the dress that I'm dreaming of, and she doesn't pressure me to buy it, even though she knows I want it.
I practically run from the store, with Ann chasing after me.
Over vegan chinese food we talk about why I couldn't just lay down the cash. She relays the information that the American wedding industry has already imprinted in my brain- it's your one special day- you should have exactly what you want. The words are already haunting me. But, says the more rational, grounded, eco-feminista part of my brain, for $2,500 you could feed an entire village in Africa, forgive, much less purchase all of the inputs for your farm for a year... I am clearly struggling. Plus, I say, I'm sure that dress was made in a sweat shop in China, and it's not even organic material! I continue to stew. Ann, like the good friend she is, supports me in my struggle, Whatever you feel good about Jess, she says over her vegan miso soup.
I thought about that dress for a solid three days. I googled it, I couldn't find it, I agonized over whether I should just call back and put it on my credit card. I got a cold, which I largely attribute to stress and lack of REM cycles over the dress. I consulted my mom, who said it wasn't worth it, my step mom, who said it might be worth it, and half a dozen other females who told me to go for it. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I just couldn't stand behind the decision to drop that type of money on a dress I would only wear for one day. In the end, the American wedding industry's line about my one special day couldn't withstand the test of my ethos. And the deep down understanding that I needed to find a dress that I feel good about, a dress that fits in line with my values.
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