The dress looked strange on, like it had a life because of my body, but not my life. It’s own life, like mine had been taken over. Remember Patrick Swazey and Whoopie Goldberg in Ghost? Like that, like it just needed a medium to become what it truly was or used to be. Like it had a purpose.
I never look in the mirror and think my clothes have a purpose above providing a covering for my body, so seeing the dress take over was a shock. It was me, but more than just me. It was a concept that formed over time, a symbol of a lot of things I don’t necessarily believe in, a precursor to a lot of things I do.
The dress originated with the scalloped necklines of Sleeping Beauty and the glittering fabric of Cinderella’s gown, with tabbed paper dresses for paper dolls, with the only time I was asked to be a flower girl when I was five and the crushing disappointment of the wedding being canceled. Christine Sullivan married someone else a long time later, but the wedding-that-didn’t helped un-form my understanding of what it was to get married: the concept of The Dress.
I didn't attend many weddings as I grew and matured. The first I really remember was when I was about eighteen and the bride was eight-months pregnant in a knee-length pink tent. My first involvement in a wedding was for my sister’s, and all I really remember from that day was sitting at the bar drinking champagne. Her dress was beautiful and everything was quite perfect, except she was a stress case.
No wonder it took me so long to marry. And when I did, my dress was handmade and very simple, costing no more than $200. I decided not to worry so much that time and gave all of the decisions to my fiance, who pulled off a pretty good party. I got to enjoy my wedding, even if I didn’t participate much. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why it didn’t work: because from the beginning, I didn’t take the wedding that seriously.
Which is why this time around, I want the right dress, even though I know the dress doesn’t make the marriage. And I want nice flowers, even though the first time my flowers consisted of my mom tying up some gardenias for the one bouquet I carried. I had no bridesmaids, no ring bearer, or flower girl. There was no chapel or wedding coordinator or centerpieces, not even assigned seating.
But this time is different.
So I try on dress after dress, believing I'll find “the one,” just like it happened with my betrothed. Each dress looks amazing, amazingly enough. There are no bad dresses, but none that are mine yet. I try on taffeta and silk, chiffon and lace. There are flourishes and crystals, gathers and bows. Some are so heavy I can't zip up the back. Others are so tight I'm hardly able to breathe. When I finally find the dress, my mom says, "That's so you," and the thing that occurs to me in that moment is that it reminds me of my first dress--that strapless ivory brocade, made to fit just me.
This dress is eggshell-white and strapless, too. It wraps flatteringly across the bodice and flows into a chiffon pool at my feet. But the line is straight across and it curves tight to my body with industrial orange clips at my spine. And here's what I realize: I am still that person, that "fool" who made all those mistakes the first time. I'm never going to not be her, never going to stop being her. And this thing I'm going to do with this guy I love may end up exactly the same, with me feeling like the biggest jerk in the world, trying to put the pieces back together again.
But here's the thing, there is no perfect. There's just flawed, fucked-up me who failed the first time and wants it so bad I'll keep trying again to get it right. Besides, it's almost just as likely end up with my happily ever after as long as I try like hell to make it work. At least that's what I tell myself when I can't sleep at night.
This dress is eggshell-white and strapless, too. It wraps flatteringly across the bodice and flows into a chiffon pool at my feet. But the line is straight across and it curves tight to my body with industrial orange clips at my spine. And here's what I realize: I am still that person, that "fool" who made all those mistakes the first time. I'm never going to not be her, never going to stop being her. And this thing I'm going to do with this guy I love may end up exactly the same, with me feeling like the biggest jerk in the world, trying to put the pieces back together again.
But here's the thing, there is no perfect. There's just flawed, fucked-up me who failed the first time and wants it so bad I'll keep trying again to get it right. Besides, it's almost just as likely end up with my happily ever after as long as I try like hell to make it work. At least that's what I tell myself when I can't sleep at night.
