Bridal Gown vs Bathing Suit Shopping: Which is Worse?

Bridal gown shopping is like bathing suit shopping, but bathing suit shopping if you had to try everything on in a communal dressing room with really terrible florescent lighting right after Thanksgiving dinner when you're PMSing. 

Oh, the pressure! The pressure of The Gown. Finding it, fitting it in, financing it. All of it enough to make even the most composed of brides lose their ever lovin' minds.

As I said earlier, I already have a dress that haunts my dreams, but I can’t afford it. So now I travel from store to store, trying on fit-and-flare mermaid tails and cake topper princess ballgowns, sheaths and A-lines, satin and lace, tulle and chiffon, until my ankles are chaffed by crinolines and my rib cage carries score marks from corset tops tugged too tight. It's brutal, and this week I had one of my worst experiences to date.

It all began when I called a Beverly Hills bridal boutique to specifically inquire about a gown I’d seen on all mighty Pinterest, my online savior and tormentor. The site that reminds me all that my wedding can be; and probably never will be because I’m either A: Not that crafty or B: Not that wealthy.

It went against my better judgment to call the 310 in search of this gown as I’ve been extremely leery of Beverly Hills in our planning process. Any bride or groom will tell you, you say “Wedding” and people automatically double their price. You say “Wedding” in Beverly Hills and I fear I will have to sell a kidney on the black market just to finance a veil.

But this store had the Pinterest dress. I had to risk it.  

I call, request the gown and, they assure me, they have it in stock and ready to set aside whenever I’d like to come in to try it on and plunk down my hard earned scrilla.

Great!

I make an appointment for the coming week, when both my mother and godmother would be in town, so I could go try this bad boy on and lock down the dress of my dreams.

A few days later, just north of Rodeo Drive, past Cartier and Chanel and all the other brands that inspire the Forever 21 clothing I can actually afford to buy, we arrive for our appointment. The bridal salon is all cream marble, a white grand piano that has surely never been played, sits in the window next to mannequins dripping in Swarovski crystal bodices and feather skirts. It’s Dubai meets Liberace.  

My mother coos, certain my dress is hiding on one of these racks.

Just through the front door, a woman stands ready to greet us. She seems to have learned all of her customer service moves by watching the shopgirls in “Pretty Woman” who give Julia Roberts the stank eye when she's still wearing hooker gear. 

"Can I help you?" she asks, nose in the air as if we've tracked dog doo into her shop. 

"Yes, hi, we have an appointment," I smile. 

Uh, no we don't. The girl I spoke to on the phone didn't make the appointment. 

But not to worry, they're not busy (--and never should be because THEY ARE HORRIBLE PEOPLE!!!! Sorry, I will try to refrain from the caps lock screaming--) so we can still shop. 

I explain I'm there to see the particular dress I'd been promised they were setting aside. 

Nope. You don’t get that either. Along with my appointment, they don't have the gown I've been promised. In fact, they don't even carry that dress or that designer.

Ummm, then what am I doing here?

But we are here; me and my out-of-town mom and godmother, so let's try some dresses on and salvage this experience. Maybe my mom was right, maybe somewhere on these illustrious racks in the perfect confection I’ve been waiting to find.

We settle in and I tell the oh-so-warm woman who greeted us my budget. Before I get “...ousand” out, she gets that same dog doo look on her face and walks away. No explanation, no apology; she just turns her back and gets to steppin'.

A few moments later, a frazzled, twitchy, overzealous newbie sales girl walks up and announces she'll be helping us now. Because apparently the thousands of dollars I was looking to spend aren't ENOUGH thousands of dollars. I've been Beverly Hills bridal budget shamed. 

At that moment, we should have left. But we kept a good attitude and start looking at the merchandise. With each dress we liked, we very explicitly asked, "Is this in our budget." We were repeatedly reassured, yes, it was.

I try on eight or nine dresses, including one that is basically the bridal version of the dress Brenda and Kelly both wore to prom:

...and find two I think I might love. One Madonna circa Material Girl...

and one massive princess poof party...

At a certain point, everything just gets to be pretty and white but either of these could be The One. Time for the big question: how much are they?

They don't have price tags and the sales girl doesn't know. It's getting late in the afternoon and we have another bridal appointment so we're told they'll get the prices and we can just come back in three hours to try the two dresses on again and make a final selection. 

We go off, try on some other stuff...

...but nothing stands up to the two dresses we've fallen in love with at Liberace’s Bridal Palais. We return three hours later, ready to throw down the plastic and purchase my dream dress. But how much are they?!?

Our twitchy sales girl, three hours later, still doesn't know. The manager doesn't know. The super rude fat lady behind the counter who also has a dog doo face doesn't know. 

Whatever. It’ll be fine. They promised it was in my budget, lemme get those beauts back on m’body so we can figure out which one is the best one!

I head back to the dressing room.

Twenty minutes, two try-ons and a few bridal tears as I prepare to Say Yes to my Dress later, the prices arrive. 

Both dresses are, literally, double my budget.

The salesgirl twitches a little extra as she sees the storm cloud of wrath pass over my face.

Inside, I’m seething. “What is this used car salesman bullshit?!?!” I want to scream. “I told you how much I had to spend, you made me feel bad about how much I had to spend and now you've got me entranced and think you can force me into spending all this extra dough?! That is UNCONSCIONABLE!”

I peel off the dress with the last shred of dignity I can muster, even in my horsey print boy shorts, and leave it in a massive heap on the floor, hovering there like a midget in a snowstorm.

This place has wasted my time and broken my heart. For shame!

A few hours later, still stinging, I look back at the photos of the dresses I’d loved so dearly standing on that hostile 90210 ground. No longer blinded by the gleam of the piano or feeling the intimidation of women who made two months salary seem like a pittance, neither dress seems that great. Neither will haunt my dresses as my unicorn dress continues to. Neither is worth all this commotion.

I can do better. And I will.