Yes, I went shopping for a mother-of-the-groom dress. I was going to shop in the safety of my daughter’s watchful eye this weekend, but the two of us couldn’t get our schedules in sync, so I impulsively wandered off on my own this morning to at least check which styles I could get away with without my son disassociating from me. Although I was just going to window shop for ideas, I succumbed to entering the great fashionista abyss, and with each item I hauled into the dressing room, I knew I was in trouble when the nice lady handed me a number and whispered, “Bueno suerte…”
Good luck? What did she know that I didn’t know? Oh…
I was just telling a friend the other day after witnessing a cute, tow-headed toddler with her frilly frock and Mary Jane shoes with daisy-trimmed white socks that I am so excited that dresses are making a comeback. After the drab neutrals of unkind khakis and woeful, winter hues, it’s so refreshing to see color back in style. Florals, pinks, yellows…a true sign of spring and oh so perfect for a “beachy” wedding. Personally, I like night weddings – preferably indoors – with lots of dim lights and softening filters on cameras. But, no, I’ll be exposed in the full glory of the bright sun with my lily-white legs blinding the guests, overlapping dough peaking out of my armpits, and my dimpled, sun-damaged décolletage. Who says I’m not growing old gracefully?
And I don’t look good in dresses. I have chicken legs, a dumpling waistline and fried eggs on my chest. Life would be easy if the celebration was held on the snow-covered peak of a ski slope. I could don my finest turtleneck with my padded uplift bra, cover my stick-legs in fashionable, knee-high leather boots and eat all I want, exhaling in comfort after each course.
The sensory overload I witnessed standing in front of those fluorescent lights was enough to send me sprinting out of the dressing room. “Gracias,” I said to the nice lady as I handed back my outfits, even though I wanted to slap that “told you so” grin off her face. “You could have at least warned me,” I said.
In my dream world, I sketch up my own design with lots of whispy coverage and ship it off to Vera Wang to perform her magic. I want to look like Grace Kelly, I’ll say, with a little Audrey Hepburn thrown in, but with a Katharine Hepburn attitude. I’ll sit comfortably throughout the entire wedding, sans Spanks, and she’ll insert an undetected metal rod through the back so I can’t slouch. I don’t mind paying extra for that.
I’m in cahoots with the mother of the bride, and recently asked her what length she’s wearing. “Long,” she said. “I don’t like my legs.” My reply: “That’s all you don’t like!?” She’s lucky I really like her. This could get ugly.
Hopefully, by the time the wedding rolls around, I should have whittled at least an inch off my fla-belly with this new low-carb diet I’m attempting to try out. (Notice how I didn’t commit fully there.) And as for the old-age spots on my skin, I’ll just flaunt them, telling people I’m Irish and was blessed with freckles en masse. Half truths…works every time.
And, attention guests, there will be absolutely no low-carb dieting for anyone that weekend. I’ll be spiking everyone’s bottled Evian with extremely hard, carb-laden alcohol, ensuring that they’ll all be seeing double, thus providing me with the best excuse ever to stuff my face with cake.