Allow Me To Explain Myself

The Dress. It will be here any day now. Actually, I expected it to be here already, but there was a “new way” of measuring length required by the dressmaker that necessitated two trips back to the bridal salon over a span of about 7 days. So, I’m thinking that The Dress will be slightly delayed due to the time it took for the maker to have a complete set of measurements.

Ah, yes. The measurements. The reason we are here (yes, we - we are all here on this journey with me, except you get to waste time reading about it while I take on the burden of deprivation and hunger, but I’m a giver, so I don’t mind… and I’m not passive-aggressive at ALL), is because I pretty much had a knock-down, drag-out fight with the micromanager of the bridal salon regarding the size of wedding dress to order.

I will tell you all quite candidly that, at the time these measurements were taken, I was the size of the average American female, who is also the size of the average British female. That, my pets, is a size 14.

I am not ashamed to admit to being a size 14 because there was a time in my life when I teetered on the verge of being TWICE that size. However, I went and lost about 14 sizes employing two methods of weight loss: one being Weight Watchers, which saw me through my first 35 pounds, the second being my own personal, modified version of the South Beach diet, wherein I completely quit sugar and white flour, took on some cardio about 5 days a week, and lost another 60 pounds.

It was quite difficult and I’m proud of having accomplished it. I would say my size at my heaviest was a tight 24, as measured by Lane Bryant, the only store in which I could shop and find something relatively fashionable at the time.

Wedding dresses are a total racket. Anybody who tells you differently makes them for a living. In fact, weddings are a bit of a racket, to tell the truth. It can be frustrating. On one hand, all you really want to do is be married to your One True Love, even if that means running down to City Hall on your lunch break and making it happen. In a lot of ways, I’d be happy with that scenario.

However, while I was never the girl that thought I would be having a giant wedding with a chocolate fountain and an ice sculpture, I did always envision a rad party with my then-faceless husband, at the very least surrounded by our closest family and friends, who would look proudly and happily upon us as my new hubby facelessly beamed golden rays of love in my direction. In that way, I admit very much to being a “girly-girl.”

As a result, I have to take part in the racket that is the Average American Wedding, searching endlessly among the piles and piles of over-priced SHIT the wedding industry tries to convince you is necessary to make your wedding day PERFECT, because of all the days of your life, your wedding day SHOULD BE PERFECT and if it’s not PERFECT, then it’s probably because you didn’t cave in and pay $11.99 a pound for some shitty, pastel-colored Jordan almonds as part of your favors. SO IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.

I digress. Well, maybe not. Moving on…

I found the Perfect Dress. It was such a great feeling and all I could think about was how MFDC might feel when he saw me in it, and I got chills. I honestly got chills, because it’s not often MFDC feels anything, let alone something in the realm of "tender," but I just KNEW he would feel something when faced with the vision of his wife-to-be in The Dress.

Back in the dressing room, while I was reluctantly stepping out of The Dress after trying it on and picking a matching veil, which are both so very, very pretty, the manager of the bridal salon stepped into my fitting room. Only she takes the bride’s measurements, possibly to avoid major errors in ordering, but probably because she's a micromanager... THE WORST KIND OF MANAGER.

In the room at that point, was the young assistant (who had had a VERY bad morning and who Courtney, Meghan and I were going out of our way to try and cheer up, which we did successfully because seriously, we are three of some of the funniest people I know - her sorry mood never stood a chance!), the micromanager of the salon, Meghan, Courtney and I. Thankfully, my mother was waiting outside on a couch. Otherwise, what happened next could have turned bloody.

The micromanager took my measurements and opened her Book O’ Sizes, which for those of you who are unaware of such things (i.e. dudes), it’s a book that lists what sizes the dress manufacturers assign to the individual's measurements. They always vary from dressmaker to dressmaker, but the one thing they have in common is that their sizing conventions ARE TOTALLY INSANE AND A COMPLETE RACKET.

AND! AND! They always order according to your largest size. Which, OK, makes sense if you're normally proportioned and buying something very fitted or tailored. But say you have a big ass and you’re going to be wearing a flowy dress where the size of your ass really won’t matter - they will still order according to the size of your big ass.

Additionally, did you know a bride (or bridesmaid or Mother of the Bride, for that matter!) is charged extra for being anything other than a size 12? And did you know that most “bridal” size 12s are equivalent to a “street” size 6 OR LESS? You can spot the racket, right? Extra is charged for anything over a 12. You have to be Victoria Beckham in order to buy a wedding dress and not have to pay extra FOR SIZE.

So, there I am, in my fitting room, surrounded by my besties and glowing with happiness in the wake of finding The Dress, when the manager points to a 22 on the sizing chart, effectively pouring ice over my romantic, glowy mood and says, “You are here. However, I would recommend that we order a 24, because it’s always better to take a dress in than to not be able to get into it.”

Excuse me? EXCUSE ME? Did I hear that correctly? I was supposed to order a size 24 wedding gown? Oh HALE NAW. No way. I insisted that we not only avoid a 24 at all costs, reasoning that I refused to have the bodice, which is the highlight of the gown, completely torn apart and reconstructed at ADDITIONAL COST (which would have been entirely necessary had I ordered a SIZE FRIGGIN 24) just because the salon forces brides to order UP a size as a CYA measure; but also that I refused to even order a 22 because when I was a 22, well, that was MANY, MANY, MANY pounds ago and I’m sorry, I’m sorry… but I’m not that girl anymore. That is not the girl who will be walking down the aisle to her no-longer faceless, but currently bespectacled, gloriously bearded future husband. Oh no. No, no, no.

So, I argued. I had to take a stand. Meghan and Courtney wisely kept silent. I told the harried micromanager that I wanted to order a size 20, though it was killing my soul to even utter that request in reference to my wedding gown after all the weight I had lost and hard work I had invested in doing so! I told her I would absolutely lose the measly 4.5 inches required for a bridal size 20.

She said, “Well, honestly, all brides say they’re going to lose weight – “

And that is when I interrupted her, morphed into my mother, and stated, “Listen, I lost 95 pounds.* If I tell you I’m going to lose another 15 pounds, you better believe it’s gonna happen. You can just consider it done.”

She expressed the barest minimum of respect in light of that feat and then told me I’d have to sign a waiver because I was “going against the salon’s recommendation.” I told her I would sign whatever I had to sign because there was no way in HAY-ELL I was ordering a size 24 wedding dress after fighting my way physically, emotionally, and geographically so far away from that size and everything it represented.

Fuck. No.

And so now I’m embracing the South Beach plan. I'm on day 3 of Phase 1, because even though I told that bitch I would lose an extra 15 pounds, I didn’t. Oops! In fact, I gained 5 more! Oops again! But you know what? I have lost the weight before. I’ll do it again. And then I can walk into that salon, slip into my dress, and when the manager zips it up easy-as-pie, my smile will be a silent Fuck You and the Broom You Flew In On.

Much like the Mona Lisa’s grin, except framed by a glorious white dress.



*It should be noted that I actually gained about 25 pounds from my lowest weight since I relocated to Los Angeles which didn’t make me happy, but which also didn’t make me hopelessly miserable, either. But that whore didn’t need to know that!