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Dressed
to kill
Good-humored
bride-to-be battles insensitive saleswomen in 3-month search
for ideal wedding gown
By
Christina Cass
for The Brooklyn
Papers
It’s the most romantic time of my life, and I can’t
stop crying.
I’m getting married soon, I’m crazy about a fantastic
man and he’s crazy about me.
Just me. Not me if I lost 20 pounds, or me if I was blonder
or shorter or wealthier or had a great butt.
Just me.
And that’s a shock. I’ve had a body and self-image
problem for, well, let’s say a really long time. But
I’ve worked it all out now that I’m a 30-something,
size 14-DD and in love.
At last, I feel comfortable with myself and my fiance adores
me just the way I am, so I was truly amazed when I found myself
crying in the dressing room at a chic Westport, Conn. bridal
gown shop.
I think the pressure had been building up for months, and
I started reverting back to my old self-sabotage. I’m
the tough one, you know, keeping it all in until the pressure
builds up so much that I need to leak a little out. Like a
bottle of seltzer. It’s either a slow fizz or a big explosion
— depending on how shook up I am.
I really hadn’t thought about my age until my fiance
and I went to Pre-Cana (which is a required marriage preparation
class in the Catholic Church).
My fiance leaned over to me and whispered, “I think we’re
the oldest couple here.”
No. Surely at least one or two couples amongst the 50 here
were our age or older?
Then we sat down with our monsignor. It was all lovely chitchat,
until he slips in, “It’s really a pleasure talking
to mature couples.” Mature? Who me? Mature? Ha!
Or until my friend’s mother heard I was engaged, and
robustly said, “It’s wonderful when any girl gets
engaged, but it’s especially beautiful when it happens
to a woman later in life.” What? Since when is late-30s
‘late in life’?
Or until someone asked me if I can still have kids. Where
do people come off asking that? Don’t you know that I-THINK-ABOUT-IT-ALL-THE-TIME-NOW-THANK-YOU-VERY-MUCH?
I really hadn’t thought about my weight again until I
began looking for my wedding dress. I started at Kleinfeld
in Bay Ridge, of course, which was the biggest place around
to get a dress. I thought I’d go there first, get a good
idea of what’s out there and then buy it discount somewhere
else. (Hey, this IS New York.)
My mom, my bridesmaids, my sisters and flower girls scattered
like PacWomen and gathered dozens of dresses to try on. It’s
wonderful having other people there when you’re looking
for your wedding dress. You get a lot of variety, because
your mother brings you a dress SHE thinks will be lovely on
you, and then your best friend brings you what SHE thinks
will be fabulous on you. But you can lose sight of what YOU
think will look good on you.
(So, I suggest that after one big afternoon out with all your
friends and family, you stick to just one person for the rest
of the dress hunt. Only one. And that person — if she
or he agrees to take on this awesome task — will know
the full history of your search and be a true guide in the
final decision. For me, that person was my patient, sharp-eyed,
creative, sensitive Mom.)
After weeks of research with magazines, Martha and the Internet,
I found that Monique Lhuillier was my designer. She made a
dress that was absolutely me. So Mom and I were off to her
trunk show in swanky Westport. Maybe I can buy a sample? Yeah!
Or at least get a trunk show discount! Wheeeee!
Instead of the intimate, private surroundings I had at Kleinfeld
(which has since relocated from Bay Ridge to Manhattan), I
had to march out into the main showroom and stand on one of
three pedestals, so I could see what the dress looked like
on me. Behind me were two couches from where brides’
families and friends can view you. Or in my case, me and my
bungee cords and clothes pins that were straining to keep
the sample dress somewhat shaped to my body.
As I’m standing with my backside hanging out for a showroom
full of strangers, the saleswoman says, “Just imagine
if it fit you! You’d look fabulous.” So, I’m
supposed to shell out $4,000 (correction, $3,500 with the
trunk show discount), because I have to use my imagination
to see what the dress will look like on me?
Excuse me, but what if my imagination is WRONG?
“No really, you’ll be fabulous,” says the saleswoman.
“Here, let me tuck in your boob. There, see? Isn’t
that nice? Very classy.” Problem was, I couldn’t
help looking over at a young wisp-of-a-thing (who slid into
her Monique Lhuillier without the aid of a crowbar) spinning
around like Julie Andrews atop the mountain in “The Sound
of Music.”
“Oh! I just LOVE it!” she crowed.
I was trying to concentrate on my own straining satin, squinting
my eyes, trying to see myself in this dress that I adored
in all the magazines.
My mom just pursed her lips.
“Well, maybe. But I just can’t see it,” she
said.
I stepped down off my pedestal just avoiding Wispy Girl’s
swishing skirts and returned to my little peach room (behind
a brocade curtain that surely wasn’t soundproof) and
tried to check the sobs bubbling out of me.
This was supposed to be the happiest time of my life. I was
shopping for my wedding gown that was supposed to make me
feel like a princess — or at least Julie Andrews —
and all I could do was cry.
After months of holding it in, I felt fat, I felt ugly and
I felt old.
Just then, there was a rustle at the curtain, “Are you
OK?” the saleswoman asked.
“Yes, fine,” I choked.
“Good, I need that dress, because this other bride wants
to try it on.”
Oh, no! I won’t be able to bear it! It’s my dress
and Wispy Girl is going to look so much better in it! She
surely won’t have to use her imagination to see what
it looks like on her.
“Do you have a Kleenex?” I asked, trying not to
dribble on the dress.
“No, sorry,” she said before swooshing the curtain
shut.
My mother slipped me some Starbucks napkins from her purse,
unbungeed me and we left.
The hunt continued.
After traipsing through Saks, Macy’s, David’s and
countless boutiques in NYC and Connecticut without success,
a friend told me of a new boutique in Park Slope!
The owner was a lovely young woman with gorgeous original
designs, mostly veils. Feeling confident in her skills, I
asked if she could build a dress for me. I knew the shape
of the dress, and I’d be happy to pay well to avoid further
humiliation. She said I’d be better off working with
a friend of hers who made dresses for older women.
OK, that’s IT!
So back to Kleinfeld. Exhausted and fed up from every angle,
I figured I’d go back to the boutique which offered a
variety of dresses; private, spacious fitting rooms; a chair
for my mother to sit in; water and Kleenex. I asked for Rita
to help us again and she brought out the two dresses I had
liked during my first trip. I held my breath, opened my eyes
and they were horrible. Nothing like what I had imagined three
months earlier.
But before the seltzer bottle blew, Rita asked a few more
discreet questions (“What’s the budget, honey?”)
and then disappeared. She came back with one dress.
“This is it,” Rita assured me.
She clipped me into a sample that wasn’t teeny tiny,
and I turned around. Rita was right. This was the dress. A
simple gown that I could wear and wouldn’t wear me.
I asked why she didn’t show it to me the first time I
was there. Rita said she did, but I didn’t like it then.
I had been blinded by labels, bling-bling and bows and pressured
by a roomful of opinions (albeit loving ones, but nevertheless,
not my own).
She brought in a veil — the perfect veil — and shoes,
and then my mom and I both started welling up.
But this time, because we were so happy. I wasn’t going
to have to wear my sweatpants down the aisle!
As I stepped back out of the room to get a better look at
myself, I glanced to the right of me for just a moment —
at another gorgeous young bride in the Lhuillier gown I had
wanted for my own.
I looked at myself, smiled, straightened my shoulders and
spun back into my own room.
Christina
Cass is a Park Slope resident and has been living happily
ever after since her Sept. 14 wedding.
Eidolon, 233
Fifth Ave. at President Street in Park Slope, (718) 638-8194.
Co-owner-designer Andrea Fisher.
Kimera, 366 Atlantic Ave. at Hoyt Street in Boerum Hill, (718)
422-1147. Owner-designer Yvonne Chu.
Kleinfeld, 110 W. 20th St. at Sixth Avenue in Manhattan, (212)
352-2180.
October
22, 2005 edition |. Read
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