Now that my friend, the Princess, has taken her plunge, it's the bridesmaids' turn. The Princess has been a bridesmaid and seen enough weddings to know about the horror that is a bridesmaid's dress and she's setting things up so that we will have no complaints. Or at least very few. Or at least, any complaints we have will be our own fault, so there.
We get to pick our own dresses.
We don't have complete freedom of choice. She went dress shopping with a couple bridesmaids and they narrowed down the selection to one designer and one fabric and color. We can have any dress we want, as long as it's from this guy, red satin and floor length.
Now I have to find a dress shop in town which carries this designer and try on some dresses. I told Oz he might have to come along and take pictures of me in the dresses so I can see what I look like. That also gives me the option of consulting with the Princess (unless her schedule and mine will accommodate a day of shopping in the next two weeks—and we live a two-hour drive apart). He groaned and made horrified sounds, but, hey, it's not like he has to try on the dresses.
Or buy special underwear.
Special dresses call for special foundation garments. Today I about threw my back out trying to get into a longline bra. Six hours later, muscles are still in spasm, even after some massage, a hot shower, and whiskey. Yes, this garment is definitely not of the wireless variety: it's got wires, padding, pushup pads, lines of silicone rubber to help it stick to my skin and stay up … Pretty much everything, like four bras in one. It's very "Hello, I'm C___ and these are my boobs." Oz suggested I get it bronzed so I could be a superhero.
I could be Bridesmaidion, flying around the world to rescue bridesmaids from bad dresses.
336 words | October 9, 2006 10:40 PM | Real true story