Upstaged by K’s first day of school, my wedding anniversary skulked quietly in the background this past Wednesday. M was way more on the ball than I was and presented me with a fragrant bouquet. Realizing my slacker ways, I struck a deal with some friends and scored a sleepover for K so that M and I could have a proper celebration involving a fancy dinner and entertaining movie at the cinema tonight.
I often wonder if I would have made my own wedding dress if I’d gotten into sewing earlier. It was an arduous process, the finding of my dress. M and I were pretty much eloping (only parents and a couple of siblings were in attendance), so I didn’t want to invest heavily in a garment that I would (hopefully) only wear once. I was, as ever, extremely picky, and knew that the dress couldn’t be pure white. Nor did I want it sweeping the floor. No ruffles or petticoats or lace for me, thankyouverymuch. Simple. Classic. That’s what I wanted.
After weeks of fruitless searching, I entered a boutique I’d never dared to browse before — too many temptations, too out of my price range. It’s the kind of place that has on display only one or two sizes of each item. And there it was: my dress. A creamy ivory silk number, the straps delicately filigreed with sapphire blue beads and minuscule pearls.
I eagerly slipped into the fitting room and shimmied myself into the whisper soft layers. Not bad, not bad, the waist hit at just the right spot. But oh, when I reached to zip up the side, the zipper teeth refused to meet. I tugged gently, afraid to tear the tissue thin lining. No. It was too small. I was heartbroken, but I convinced myself that it was a good thing since it was ridiculously expensive, though not in the astronomical range.
A few more weeks passed, and I still couldn’t find a dress I liked, much less loved. I couldn’t get that silk dress out of my head. I was running out of time, and I was desperate enough to consider a slightly weird polyester sheath from Marshall’s since I figured I might as well seriously downgrade if I couldn’t get the dress I wanted.
I’m a masochist and decided to look at the silk dress one more time. Just a look. Nothing more. But it wasn’t there and doubly crushed, I was about to leave, but something made me stop. “Do you still have the ivory silk dress with the beaded straps?” I asked the kindly looking staff. “Oh! We just put that on sale — here, let me get it for you.” My dress, with a beautiful red slash on the price tag — half off! I had been dieting as brides-to-be tend to do, and maybe, just maybe…the zipper slid right up. I mean really, it seemed too good to be true. Not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth, I snapped it up, and nine years later, I’m still certain that it was the perfect dress.
It’s a Wyeth by Todd Magill (from the Spring 05 collection), who is now a menswear designer. Too bad, his dresses were ethereal and so lovely. This is probably the only designer frock that I’ll ever own, and it was worth every penny (35,000 of them to be exact). Maybe next year, I’ll show you what it looked like on, and I might tell you the whole wedding story. It’s pretty hilarious. Spoiler: M wore jeans.
Me: What kind of person do you want to marry, sweetie?
K: What? Why?
Me: Just wondering…I mean, you don’t HAVE to get married or anything (getting flustered that I’m imposing societal pressures on my 8-year-old)
K: [rolling her eyes] Someone like you and Daddy. Now can I please go back to reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid?
Have a wonderful weekend, friends!
Nine years of marriage
It feels like just yesterday
when I said, “I do”