AIMEE: “Beautiful! Elegant! We’ll ghjkflshgkhkhgjkfsd and hgfsdhlkh and BOOBIES and fhkdsahhjkl,” the sweet little seamstress with the accent says to me, poking and prodding and pinning my dress all around me. I am trying very hard, but quite honestly, “boobies” really IS the only word I can make sense of and, incidentally, mine are just not voluminous enough to hold up this dress.
My fitting room at the Saks in Virginia is a zoo: my parents are smiling and so happy and my sister is taking pictures with my camera (for this blog…and you’re welcome) and my bridesmaid Jen L. from Florida is also scooting around taking pictures (and wait a second, why is MY camera not working? My sis is struggling with it and now she’s showing it to my dad who can’t figure it out either and they’re giving me that “Don’t upset the bride” look while my mom distracts me by telling me how good I look, which works) and the seamstress is running around and what’s she saying? And now my sister’s bringing me the camera and I’m trying to figure it out. And where’s the woman who sold me the dress, the one I adore who might be able to tell me why it’s so loose on top? And now I’m sweating. NO! Don’t sweat, this is YOUR dress now!
This is so not what I expected to feel when I put on my satin Elizabeth Fillmore gown (style name: “Diva,” I kid you not) for the first time. My friend Jennie had told me of the tears she shed when she tried on her gown at her first
fitting. I’m a major crier, so I figured I would be trying and failing to hold back torrents of joyous tears. Instead, I’m feeling kind of manic, but, you know, maybe that’s better than the tears. Apples and oranges.
First thing’s first: I love the dress. LOVE it. But now that it’s mine, this thing needs to fit exactly right so…
“I know you’ve been doing this a lot longer than me, but just to doublecheck,” I say sweetly, “this will eventually stay up and fit flush against me, right?” I look down and–pardon me for getting personal–but with these cups I’ve got in to amp me up and fill the thing out, there is now a gap between my chest and the dress big enough for me to hold a drink in there during the cocktail hour.
Jen, ever the shy one, translates: “She doesn’t want her BOOBS”–she pats her chest–”flying OUT”–she opens her hands as if to signify cups that have runneth over. Granted, I don’t have much to runneth over, but still, I mean, I have to be able to move, you know? Brian and I have ambitious plans for a little “Dancing with the Stars”-esque number to a Barry White tune.
“Don’t worry, here’s what I do, I ghfjdsklhlk hfjklshk….” a long explanation ensues, and then, at last, comes what I need to hear. “Don’t worry, will be perfect!”