I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to write this post. Just goes to show how crazy things are around here.
I bought my dress over the weekend. It was an amazing stroke of luck.
I made appointments at two salons, both in Waltham: Bride’s Choice and Yolanda’s. In that order.
Sarah and I headed out about 11 am for our noon appointment at Bride’s Choice. We got there about 15 minutes early. There was no one in the front room, except for a few mannequins displaying tuxes, bridesmaids gowns, flower girl dresses and, yes, wedding gowns. We looked around a bit before finally venturing upstairs.
At the top of the stairs was a doorway into what can only be called a warehouse of dresses. Row upon row, all bundled up in plastic. I have never seen so many dresses in one place.
The room at the top of the stairs had a mirror with a pedestal on the right and dressing rooms on the left. A counter displayed tiaras and other jewelry.
A small Italian woman was helping another girl with a dress. She said she’d be with us in a minute, and we just looked at tiaras for a while.
When she was ready for us, the saleswoman turned us loose in the warehouse and said to pick out anything I wanted to try on.
Sarah was my runner, bringing the dresses I picked out to the front of the room. I must have picked out about 20 dresses, each of which weighed about 25 pounds. Sarah later said she was glad we decided not to go to the gym that morning.
I was exhausted after going through all those racks. Now I had to try on all these dresses I picked.
The saleswoman set up a dress for me in the dressing room — literally. She set it up so it was standing on the floor and all I had to do was step into it. These dresses were so big!
I stepped into it and came out. She zipped me up and helped me to the pedestal.
I was transformed. A big grin came over me. There, in the mirror: I was a bride! I felt elegant and beautiful. I really couldn’t stop grinning.
The first three dresses I tried on I went over to the big mirror to check and the saleswoman began to worry that we were going to have to make this trek for all of them. But as I tried more on, I was able to see right away whether I liked them or not. Alright, I liked all of them, but some were definitely better than others.
The saleswoman culled a bunch for me, too, based on the floor sample size. She said some of them I just wouldn’t be able to try on at all because they were too small. They can, of course, order larger sizes, but they were having a floor sample sale, so any of those I picked that clearly wouldn’t fit she got rid of.
In the end, I kept coming back to the second dress I tried on, a Mori Lee floor sample that fit perfectly (a size 16, which I tried not to notice; I’m somewhere between a 10 and a 12 in street clothes, so this could be upsetting if I think about it too much). It was also the cheapest I tried on. Both Sarah and the saleswoman were pulling for it (I don’t know if she works on commission, but I really appreciate that she told me she liked this one best even before she looked at the price tag).




I cancelled my appointment at Yolanda’s: I bought it. I know I said I wouldn’t, but the price was too good: $350, with tax. I had the money and I was not going to find anything like this at this price, not even online (I looked!).
As for alterations, it will need very few: The straps tend to slip off my shoulders and it’s a little long (though Anne and Sarah think that if I wear a crinoline and heels, the dress might not need hemming). My friend Kara’s mom already offered to do it for me. There’s no beading at the hem, so it should be pretty simple.
But now I have to worry about it not fitting if I lose weight! This seems so backward.
I can’t believe there is a wedding dress lying on the bed in my guest bedroom. I keep sneaking peeks at it when I go by. James has seen some of it, of course (it’s in clear plastic and we live together; it was unavoidable), but I’m trying to keep him from looking at pictures of me in or even looking at it too long. I’m not horribly superstitious, but it makes me nervous.