The Unique Hell of Finding an Adequate Wedding Dress

“Hey, mom! Sorry to wake you up, but we got engaged, and I want to get married and the Hotel Thayer in October – can you call them tomorrow? – No, not this October, next October – Ok, thanks, Night!”

My parents had watched “Father of the Bride” that night, so the late-night call from France was not unexpected. As soon as I hung up, I put holds on all the wedding-related books at the local library. Getting married is just another project, right?

Thomas and I returned from France and confirmed to everyone that I’d warned of a “possible engagement” that it was a done deal. Oogling diamonds is easy. It’s fun. Everything was awesome. We made a list of the people we liked, wanted to like, and the people were related to. Most straightforward guest list ever.

The Hotel Thayer had one available day and time in October, which was also easy. Take it or leave it, yes, please. Done. They had an in-house menu for dinner and a bakery to select cake flavors, so it was just binary decision-making. Beautiful. Delicious. Easy.

My favorite color is teal, but getting married at the United States Military Academy calls for something more. France’s flag is blue, white, and red. Ours is red, white, and blue. Done! And the logo of our crossed flags is perfect. Cue invites and decorations - we have a theme.

One prominent feature of weddings is that the bride wears a dress and it’s a big deal. The books did not explain how to deal with this. This was a problem.

“How do you envision your perfect wedding,” asked the overly fit, overly made-up, incredibly phony purveyor of overpriced gowns.

“A classy, historical event. No streaking. My cousins are terrible. We talked to the military police, and it should be ok.”

“I mean your dress,” she gritted out through her grimace at my candid response.

“Oh. I don’t know. Something classy and simple….”

And the nightmare began. Apparently, (many? some? most?) brides have a magical moment when they find the one dress to go with “the one,” and then they ring a freaking bell and then have champagne and eat fancy little cakes while they sign their souls away to overpay for some satin.

Nope. Not me.

Dress “boutique” after “salon” I frowned in the mirror and thought, “shit, this wedding is screwed.” But then the patterns emerged. I like buttons down the back. They’re classy and old-fashioned. I look anemic in white, so ivory is the only whiteish option (but aren’t colors trending? But not pink, that sucks). How do we keep track of all of these things? We have some photos (do I look that terrible?), but there are also individual attributes. Measurable, finally.

Ode to the Analytic Power of Microsoft Excel.

Oh, Microsoft Excel, thy mighty sheet of cells,

Where numbers dance, and secrets dwell,

Thy formulas, a symphony of logic and might,

Unleashing insights with analytical light.

In the realm of analytics, you reign supreme.

Excel the visionary of data’s gleam.

I had no preferences, so I had to try everything. I tried a mermaid dress, but the one I tried was ridiculous. The delightful boutique lady wanted to help me. I did not want help. I unzipped the garment bag of that monstrosity, and it inflated to fill the entire dressing room. I wiggled myself into it, more or less, and when I walked out, I was greeted by raucous laughter.

“You look like Ursula, the sea witch! Not a mermaid!”

Great. Glad they’re enjoying the champagne and my humiliation. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Terry, our online ordained reverend, and mom’s best friend. I appreciate your candor.

Dress after dress is meticulously added to the sheet. Ten, twenty, one hundred. And some attributes were all right. There were some contenders. No winners, but I wouldn’t get married naked, so progress. Wait! Does dress 150 have the same attributes as number 135? Are we finally done with this? The photos confirm – that the same dress is rated the same at two different boutiques! Huzzah! Where are the champagne and the cakes? I picked a wedding dress in the late-night glow of a laptop screen. There is no bell to ring: just an electric light and a sigh of relief.

No one told me about the market value of wedding dresses. It should have been in the books. They just assumed some fairy godmother-phooey magic would take care of the dress part. Bibitty-bobbity-bullshit. Call after call. California. Virginia. Pennsylvania. New York. Someone would sell me this stupid thing at retail.

             Hark! A bridal shop in West Point, Pennsylvania, was selling the dress at retail and offering deals for the groom and his posse. Yes, please, done deal. My West Point, New York wedding was back on track. Maybe fate isn’t fiction. The West Point vibes were alive and well.

             Weddings are a big ball of stress. But I fit in the dress, and the event was a success. I danced, I pranced, I romanced. By the night’s end, my dress was a fright – tattered, splattered, and battered. I stuffed it in a sack to deal with when I returned, but the poor dress remained in distress: no love or respect.

             Our fifth anniversary came with some gift cards, and I bought a cleaning and restoration kit for the poor dress, but our tenth anniversary came, and the kit was still there. Would the dress in such a mess even be restored? I can’t even try to care. I didn’t get the bell, champagne, or cakes; how can I care about the fate of the dress? All the stress but none of the magical joy? I should care about this thing covered in decade-old dirt and leaves. I don’t. I won’t. But maybe someone will, so I should send the thing in to get cleaned.

             Oh, Excel, you helped me get married and understand me like no one else. Till death do us part, you help guide my heart. Happily ever after is always a few weighted averages away.