Long before I had a ring--please, long before I had a man--I would find myself inextricably drawn to my TV each week, like a moth being sucked into the vortex of the glowing blue light of a bug zapper on a bayou porch, to relish mothers and daughters fight over organza vs. satin. I knew it probably wasn't the best thing for my single lady psyche but watching women searching for their dream dress unlocks something deep in the Pleasure Center of my brain, fulfilling all of my lady desires:
Pretty dresses
Shiny things
Weepy people
Bitch fights over silly nonsense
Stories of love and devotion
It's the peanut butter and chocolate of television.
Now I have a ring and a man and it's time to find my very own dream dress. Without Randy to rescue me or Monte and Lori to jack me up (which, let's be honest, is kind of a gross catchphrase) it's up to me to find some confection that's enough to bring everyone to tears.
On my first shopping outing, I decided to be savvy. I've learned from my repeat viewings of Say Yes that the way bridal gown sales people cinch the deal is to put a veil on you. In a pretty white dress, you're in a pretty white dress. In a pretty white dress PLUS a veil, guuuurl, you're a bride. And that is when the tears start.
So, NO VEILS, I decreed. I want to be levelheaded and sensible.
Also, NOTHING OUTSIDE OF MY BUDGET. Why? Because the expensive one is the one I'm gonna want and then I'm either going to be heartbroken or walletbroken, neither of which are good.
And, lastly, NO TEARS. I get it, it's exciting but keep your shit together, ladies; it's just a dress.
These were my rules.
They were all swiftly and mightily broken.
For my first day of dress shopping, a day meant for "fun" and "browsing," I went with my mother and posse of godmothers to Marina Morrison in San Francisco.
Located on the 4th floor of Gump's department store, I should've known I was in trouble. Gump's is a store that sells 3 inch tall porcelain dog figurines for $250 bucks. This is not the kind of place that caters to the thrifty.
But I figure, this is all for fun, let's stuff on!
While some dresses could be dismissed for reasons of pouf or cut, ie: the below gown which all the godmothers loved, as did I, until I noticed it made me look like a cupcake with dolphins on my boobies:
Or those which make me realize just how much I need to invest in Spanx to knock down my FUPA:
Or some that were beautiful but simply not quite "Me:"
There was one, one that haunts my dreams. One which I won't post here just in case I win the Lotto and can actually afford to wear it on my wedding day, this way it won't be spoiled for my groom.
The dress was perfect, a trifecta of all the Wants and Likes I mentioned to the saleswoman when we walked in (lace, tulle, sleeves). Perfect expect for one major detail: If I buy this dress, I have to get married at Denny's because I won't be able to afford anything else.
Heartbreak!
To add insult to injury, I even tried the damn thing on with a veil, and, wouldn't you know it, there I was a bride with a lump in her throat.
I slunk out of the store a few dresses later, fixated on my unicorn gown. And that's when my Googling fingers took over so I scoured every pre-owned dress site in the vain hope of finding a cheap version. But that was when I stumbled upon the nefarious underbelly of Bridal Gown shopping, the Chinese knockoff trade.
Now, there's nothing wrong with a knockoff, I love Canal Street as much as the next girl, but for my wedding dress? Do I dare trust a website to whip up a $478 Chantilly lace ballgown? Is there even the slightest glimmer of hope that I won't end up hating it, myself and mourning the $478 I've thrown down the internet toilet?
I google on. Most brides seem to share my fear of internet sites to be trusted with the attire for Your Most Special and Important and Monumental Day Ever. But one bride took the plunge and offered fair warning, saying her dress arrived, a shadow of what she'd expected, and was too cheaply made to be altered. My concerns exactly.
China seemingly off the table, I decided I needed another solution; something inexpensive and easy and fabulous.
So I went to David's Bridal at the mall all by myself. No entourage, no one to tell me I had back fat (thanks, mom), no one to harsh my mellow when I found something I dug, and no one to coerce me into spending more than $1800 on a dress. This was a genius solution.
Or so I thought.
In the cramped, florescent lit dressing room, something synthetic scratching against my legs, I realized the horror of the truth: You get what you pay for. Poorly fit and awkwardly pinned, I emerged in each dress looking chubby and crumpled and miserable.
It was as if David was screaming to me, "RUN! GO, BABY! GO BUY THAT OTHER DRESS! THE EXPENSIVE ONE! NOW!"
After a dozen dresses, I finally found one Vera Wang option that seemed to have some potential. I took a photo and sent it to my mother. I even put a veil on for the full effect.
I called to get her feedback but she didn't say anything about the dress. She couldn't, actually, because she was laughing too hard to form words. I took that as my answer and slipped the dress off. As I waded out of it, I caught sight of a tag: "Made in China."
My unicorn dress still haunts me. I dream of her, stalk her on OnceWed, pray to find someone selling her at 57% off. And, sometimes, on dark lonely nights, I think of China and wonder, "Would it really be that bad?"
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