The Dress Fitting

Hola

Sorry for the delay of this entry.  This entry is about, as the title suggests, my wedding dress fitting appointment that I had on Friday, March 8th (which was also my Zumba-birthday.)

So. It went like this.

On Friday, after I taught a Zumba class, my mom picked up my bestie A and me from the gym and whisked us off to Cocoon Silk on NW 23rd Ave.  After a quick stop for lime-flavored diet coke and gum ('cause I'm not anorexic or anything!) we arrived at our destination on the trendy, shop-lined street.  Parking was a bit of a to-do, but we finally found a spot only roughly a half a mile away from the store.  Not too bad for a Friday afternoon!

To be honest with you guys, I felt like I was walking to my execution as I dragged my feet up those 5 steps to the door.  Entering the store, I felt like I walked into a nightmare after reading too many bridal magazines.  There was fabric.  Everywhere!  Pastels, white, off-white, shiny, matte, rose-colored, you name it.  There were skinny, headless mannequins everywhere.  

I was terrified.  

A woman with a shock of silver hair came out of nowhere and asked how she could help us. I had actually met her at the Bridal Expo in January but of course she wouldn't remember me.  I blinked unintelligently at her until my mom took pity on me and said, "we are your one o'clock appointment."  "Oh!" said the woman, glancing surreptitiously at A's and my hands, trying to figure out which one of us was the bride-to-be.  As soon as her gaze caught the glint of my ring, she was talking 100 miles a minute about how "he" would be right out and that "he" had so many ideas for wedding dresses and that "he" could make anything I wanted.

Who was this "he"?  More importantly, where was this "he" and was he going to come out talking as fast as this woman and start blurting out my measurements before I could tell him not to?

Soon, a small, sharply dressed Cambodian man, who couldn't have been more than 35 years old, came out from a (silk) curtain.  He was absolutely darling.  He was nice, quiet, had a funky accent and I instantly felt more at ease.  He told me that the dress I had seen at the January show had been sold, but that they still had it in the store so I could try it on.  I said, "that's fine it's sold.. I don't want that one anyway.  I want that style but in black!"  Well, he thought that was an awesome idea.  I was glad to hear it.  I supposed after selling as many custom dresses as he had that he knew what he was doing.

Anyway, before I knew it, I was in a dressing room (surrounded by more silk curtains), stepping into a dress.  "It will be way too big for you," the woman's disembodied voice floated in to me.  It f*cking better be! I thought.  I held the strapless front up and came out so she could zip me.  I swear, I've never sucked in so hard.  I was sure the dress wouldn't zip.  But it did.

I thought the dress was heavy but apparently it's actually pretty light for a wedding dress.  I couldn't remember how heavy the ones at David's Bridal were.  Anyway, I could barely walk in this thing.  I vaguely remember now the man telling me there were actually 70 yards of fabric in the dress I was wearing, but didn't it feel so light and airy?  Mmhmm... I mumbled, trying not to look in the mirror.

The woman put a small foot stool in front of me and told me to step up onto it.  I did, and was face to face with an entire wall of mirrors.  Now, this is not an uncommon thing for me since I teach Zumba for a living.  But... I'm not usually in a strapless, white wedding gown with 4 people commenting on how beautiful I looked!  I, on the other hand, looked in the mirror and was horrified.

I was the same color as the dress!  I mean, I know I'm pale but... Jesus!  This was ridiculous.

The man came up and started grabbing bits of fabric and pulling things up and putting those black metal paperclips (the ones that hold like whole reams of paper) on the back to hold things in place and telling me things like, "now this part will be shorter, this will come to your hip and not your crotch, it bustles like this, you can hold it like this," and so on.  

And then it happened.  Out came the dreaded tape measure.  My friend A, who has a handle on my situation, immediately burst into action asking questions, telling me stories, making me laugh, distracting me.  Thank God for A.  I don't know what I'd have done without her as my mom was just sitting there saying nothing.  The man and the tape measure flitted about, measuring various things all over me.  I tried not to pay attention to him and tried not to faint.

Almost as soon as it began it was over.  He said, "okay you can go change now."  I fled to the dressing room as fast as 70 yards of silk would let me.  I couldn't get out of that dress fast enough.  I was worried because I was so nervous that my armpits were starting to sweat and I didn't want to sweat in somebody else's wedding dress!

The price was uttered, half down requested, and my mom's pen drew blood from her checkbook.  It fit in my budget, thank heavens!  My mom was asking more questions but I couldn't wait to get out of there.  "I'll be out in the sunshine, mom!" I blurted as I zoomed out the door.

So... it wasn't horrible.  It wasn't even bad.  I won't say it was a super-fun experience but I will say it was a good experience.  I got measured.  I didn't die.  The man was nice.  Nobody mentioned my numbers and he was writing in Cambodian anyway.  Nobody commented on my size at all, actually.  Everyone was congratulating me and telling me I looked beautiful.  That still makes me a little uncomfortable but... it was nice to hear it all the same.