Shopping for a wedding dress is awkward. vulnerable. Fucking scary.
First of all, they make you write all of your identifying information down on a pretty piece of paper. They even ask where you keep all your porn, so you know they really have you by the ladyballs.
Each boutique is different on purpose, because they don’t want you to get too comfortable. Who are they, you ask? They are the The Powers That Be. The bridal industry. Those doctors who insist you get an exploratory colonoscopy “just to rule some things out.”
What do I mean by different? I mean that all the rules change, bro. In one place I was allowed to paw through the gowns like my cat paws through a pile of dead rodents. Expensive albino rodents. And in another place I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. Indeed, I couldn’t even scratch my own ladyball without my
keeper attendant yelling at me and swatting my hand away.
Another variable involves unmentionables. When I first went dress shopping, I didn’t know what to expect, and so I made sure I wore my best skivvies with minimal amounts of unsightly holes and skid marks, just to be safe. You know, I even removed my leg hair and made sure my head hair was in socially acceptable condition. The preparation that went into this expedition wasn’t unlike the grooming needed for a blind date where you were promised some
second base action good conversation.
Once I was half naked in front of huge mirrors and cold because I was missing all my winter leg fuzz, I had to actually put some dresses on. Getting into a dress was like trying to claw my way up through an igloo that had collapsed on top of me. I could feel my world closing in on me. It was hard to breathe. My arms were stuck up over my head, groping through endless, fluffy white matter. I could hear my attendant, just barely, reassure me from the other side. Don’t worry, she said, I’ll get you out. Even if I have to cut you out!
I requested that if she couldn’t get me out to please refrain from cutting of any kind and call some hot firefighters to sexily rip me out. And have some cold glasses of milk ready and waiting. At that point, who needs a bachelorette party, amirite?
Once I emerged with a second degree tulle-burn from the white abyss, a complicated pattern of zipping, tugging, lacing, and clamping ensued. For a moment I was not sure if I felt more like Kate Winslet in Titanic when her mom is doing up her corset and reminding her -yet again- that the money’s all gone, or if I felt more like the stuffing in a Thanksgiving turkey. Eh, the latter involves more butter so I’ll go with that.
Then I was made to stand there displayed on a platform while people took my picture and commented on various parts of my body as if I were that amazingly tasty-looking pig from Charlotte’s Web. And don’t get me wrong, because I am rather tasty, but where the hell is my motherly, not-at-all-creepy, talking spider who is supposed to save me from torture and almost certain death?! You and your web of lies!
Taking all this into account, I am somehow supposed to have an opinion about which dress
I like the best doesn’t make me look like a Big Fat Greek sparkly snowstorm. There are so many things to take into account. It’s gotta be slutty, but not too slutty. Pure and chaste, but not too pure and chaste. It’s a delicate balance. And remember, all this is provided the dress costs less than what Oprah’s “s” shaped poop goes for on eBay.
So there you have it. I feel like a poor barnyard animal lost in a snowstorm. With no firefighter milk and no under the shirt action in the car on the way home from that cheap restaurant with the colorful crap on the walls because Blind Date Man “thought it would be fun.”
I must be a masochist, because even after all this, I am still going back for more. I have an appointment at yet another new boutique for a week from Sunday.
Wish me luck!