There must be twenty-five magazines stacked all over my poor little coffee table. The shipping alone had to have been more than all the publications, and Mom has helpfully attached a short note to the front of a particularly thick Modern Bride.
The note says,
Molly,
Go through these magazines to get ideas of bridal gown styles you would like us to consider.
I look up and down the pile of magazines and peer over the top to find Logan on the couch reading another one.
“This style looks nice,” he says, holding up a picture of a long, straight dress that would look amazing on Cindy Crawford and few others ... seriously, you would have to be six feet tall and the width of a pencil.
I don’t have time to respond before the phone rings. It’s Mom calling to ensure that her package arrived and I understand my “assignment.”
“There were supposed to be packages of colored paper clips,” she explains.
I look around the table, and sure enough there are: one yellow, one green, and one pink.
“Use those to clip pages with dresses you like. Pink for your favorites, yellow for the maybes, and green for the not-sures.”
“Okay,” I nod, actually taking this all in.
Thankfully the Call Waiting beeps and I’m able to get off with Mom after just a few more instructions about disregarding length and color of dresses in ads as they might be available differently.
On the other line is Jamie.
“Thank goodness! I was on with Mom.”
“Haha,” she laughs. “Did the magazines come today?”
“You knew that was going to happen?!?”
“Of course. It’s all part of the fun of planning a wedding. And you always thought you were missing out.”
I really always did think I was missing out ... but so far, all it’s been is work! If Jamie knew what I was really doing to have this wedding, she’d think I was completely insane, which I probably am.
“So?” I ask, “in the spirit of all wedding all the time, is it a flower girl or a ring bearer?”
“It’s a flower girl!” Jamie screams into the phone and I scream back.
Then I scream across the room, “Logan! You’re getting a niece!”
Jamie stops screaming. “Logan’s there? You told him?”
“Yes, he’s right here.”
“I wanted to tell him,” she pouts.
Ugh ... I forgot who I was dealing with.
“Hang on, I’ll put him on,” and I hand the phone to an eager Logan, who is now standing beside me.
I am grinning ear to ear at the thought of my niece on the way. I can’t wait for her to arrive! As Logan chats with Jamie in the background I pick up the magazine on the top of the tall pile and start flipping through. The thing is about 80% ads. I’m trying to remember Mom’s color-coded system as I see pictures of stunning dresses and hideous dresses and everything in between ... quite frankly, I’m starting to doze off. I hear Logan say “Hang on” to Jamie in the background and answer the Call Waiting.
“Hey, Molly,” he calls over to me, “Mom also says that you need to select a date for your engagement party and get her a list for that by the end of the week.”
Then he clicks back over to Jamie and keeps chatting.
Engagement party? Now that’s what I’m talking about. All this wedding planning has been a lot of work—it’s about time something fun got planned for me. This news gives me a second wind of energy and I pick up the next magazine on my stack and get to work.
32
A Crazy Thing Happens
Smack-dab in the middle of all the wedding insanity, a crazy thing happens. Do you remember Kevin? The handsome groomsman whose fault it was I had to ride the subway home the morning after Maggie’s wedding in the lavender curse? Well, I didn’t, either ... but he remembered me and recognized me in the check-out line at D’Agostino!
Turns out his name is Evan, not Kevin, but he is as handsome as I thought he was the night I created a Jack Daniel’s drought in Manhattan. Thankfully I was just picking up some apples, bread, and paper towels (I would have died if it was tampons and Ben & Jerry’s, which it regularly is) when he warmly called my name and waved from across the market like we were long-lost best friends.
We ended up talking for an hour in the frozen food aisle, and he never noticed the engagement ring on my left hand. Perhaps this could be because I carefully kept it tucked into the pocket of my jacket, but I think it was probably just luck ... or maybe fate ... because he asked me out for Friday night! Wouldn’t that be crazy if the “he’s the one” sensors that were going off back at Maggie’s wedding had been onto something? Wouldn’t that be an adorable story to share with the grandkids?
The tricky, and somewhat disappointing, thing about dating when you’re “engaged” is that you have to keep it a secret from everyone else. So, like a high-school junior, I have responsibly told Justin and Logan that I will be at Lauren’s all evening, but not to call because we are having a wedding movie marathon. I’ve told Lauren, and all my other girlfriends, that I’m having a romantic night out with Justin. Bases are covered and I’m only slightly horrified, but mostly impressed, at how good I’ve become at lying.
At eight o’clock I am looking fabulous in black leather pants, my favorite cashmere sweater, and pointy black boots. I specifically leave my engagement ring in the top drawer of my jewelry box—I’m ready to meet Evan. I feared that the outfit could arouse suspicions in Justin and Logan, but thankfully I was able to slip out the door without seeing them. Instead of being planted in front of the television like I’d feared, they were in Logan’s room with the door closed. I lucked out!
When I arrive at the bar Evan suggested, I am completely relieved that it is fairly dark, and not too crowded ... I definitely don’t want to run into anyone I know tonight. He is waiting for me and I feel a flicker of excitement because he is even better-looking tonight than he was standing in front of the Lean Cuisines the other day. I join him for a pre-dinner drink, but remind myself not to get as drunk as the first time we met. I sip a glass of white wine while he drinks two imported beers and we chat about everything under the sun.
He is comfortable and easy to talk to, plus he’s funny and interesting, too. Before I know it, we’ve hardly touched dinner and are on to hardly touching dessert. I know, it’s rare for me to pass up food, but I am too excited to eat! He pays the bill, even though I genuinely offer to treat, and we quickly walk out of the restaurant and then stop, somewhat awkwardly, on the sidewalk out front. The sexual chemistry between us is too much to hold back any longer, and I am greatly relieved when he grabs me and pulls me into the alley at the side of the restaurant and starts kissing me. We make out for a few minutes before the lust is curbed enough to realize the shame of going at it in a public alley.
“Let’s go to your place,” I say in my best sexy voice. I think we all know that nothing about me is sexy, but maybe I can fool him for just a little longer. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, you are right ... I am being a total slut ... but do you understand how long it’s been? Sure, my fantasy sex life is amazing, but I am human and I could use a little nookie.
“We can’t, I have a roommate—let’s go to your place,” he disappoints me.
Crap. “I have roommates, too,” I moan. No need to explain that my roommates are my fake, gay fiancé and my younger brother.
And then do you know what he says? “Let’s get a hotel.”
And do you know what slutty Molly says? “Okay.”
I only suffer a minute of shame as we check in at eleven o’clock at night without a single bag, because before I know it, Evan throws me onto the bed and we start tearing each other’s clothes off. It’s not the best sex I’ve ever had ... but it’s not the worst, and when someone has been in the desert for as long as I have, they aren’t demanding Fiji water when Arrowhead (or maybe even tap) is being offered. Know what I mean?
When we finish, I feel like a total guy lying there c
alculating how long I need to stay. I mean, he did pay for a hotel room ... but I think me being gone all night would arouse too many suspicions to deal with. I am greatly relieved when, less than thirty minutes later, Evan gets up and starts to put his clothes back on.
“I wish I could stay all night, Molly, but I have a dog,” he explains.
Phew! “I have a cat!” I exclaim to reassure him that I, too, need to be getting home.
Hand in hand, we exit the hotel, sneaking past the concierge since now that our brains are working more regularly, we know to be embarrassed and stop out in front of the hotel.
“Molly, you’re amazing. I have to see you again,” Evan says, and he looks so sexy with his messed-up hair that I have half a mind to pull him back up to the hotel room.
But instead I am a lady, and just say, “I would love to.”
“Are you free on Sunday?”
For a second I wonder to myself why he skipped Saturday, the official “date night,” but seriously, what do I care? He asked me out ... it’s not like he said, Call ya.
“I am,” I inform him.
“Great, let’s have lunch.”
Lunch? Ugh ... beggars can’t be choosers.
“Lunch sounds great.”
33
A White Dress, At Last
I’ve been a good girl ... I’ve gone through every magazine that Mom sent my way. It wasn’t easy ... the first half-dozen were fun; after that it became exhausting. Pretty much any minute that I wasn’t at school or doing work for school I was looking through bridal magazines. To the untrained eye (aka Logan and Justin) it didn’t look like work, but trust me, it was. I hardly had the time to whip up my engagement party list and select a date in early December.
I suppose it was all worth it, because when Mom arrives at my apartment early Saturday morning I do have a very definite idea of the bridal gown I want ... never mind the fact that it’s the same style I was pretty certain I wanted before I looked through every bridal magazine published this year (and maybe last year, too). Mom looks over my magazines to see the things I’ve marked and I’m pleased that I get approving nods from her.
“Okay, good work. Now, are you ready to go?”
I swear, Mom talks to Marion too often, and if you think the “now” thing is annoying coming from Marion, it’s nothing compared to when it comes from my mother. But just wait, it gets better—she pulls out a laundry list of bridal salons in Manhattan that we have appointments at today. Since when do you need an appointment to go shopping? I ask Mom this and she informs me that, according to Marion, the only places really worth looking at require them. Ugh—Marion is starting to annoy me.
Mom and I stop for a quick cup of coffee, and even though I’m starving, she won’t let me eat before we try on dresses. My hunger pains attack me as I look over her long list and realize that I won’t be allowed to eat a single thing all day! I’m hoping and praying that some of these bridal salons will offer snacks, the way Marion did at our Plaza meeting, when we stop in front of the first store on our list, the Bridal Suite.
We ring a little doorbell to get buzzed in ... I swear, the place has more security than a jewelry store, and a girl named Emily, dressed to the nines, greets us politely only after she has confirmed that we do, in fact, have an appointment. Emily looks me over, head to toe, and for the first time in my life I’m feeling uncomfortable to be in Gap, not Gucci.
“Well,” she says icily, “did you have any particular styles in mind?”
I’m about to explain what I want when my mother jumps in to answer for me.
“I’d like to see her in something strapless, don’t you think?”
Emily nods in a way that clearly shows she could care less if I’m in strapless or not. She expertly walks over to her racks of dresses and starts pulling out choices.
“You’re a four,” she says, not asks, over her shoulder.
“Or a six,” I add ... I really don’t want to feel like a stuffed sausage.
She carries the pile of dresses toward what I assume is a fitting room and instructs my mother to sit in a plush chair next to a small, stagelike thing and tells me to come with her. Once in the dressing room, she stands there, waiting expectantly for me to strip right in front of her. When it becomes clear that she isn’t going to leave, I take off my clothes, feeling sorry that I didn’t wear nicer underwear ... who knew?
“Bra, too,” she orders me.
So far, dress shopping is not fun. I take off my bra, as instructed by this strange girl watching me like a hawk, and before I can think of a way to try to cover myself, she’s literally strapping me in this strapless bra/corset combination thing.
“You have to wear the proper foundations with a bridal gown,” she informs me.
Then she gives me quick instructions on how to dive into the first, enormous dress and buttons up the back.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“A seven.”
Emily places a pair of white satin, but very used-looking, heels in front of me and I slip my bare feet into them as I assume I’m supposed to.
“Lovely,” she says without any warmth in her voice.
I walk out to where my mother is and climb onto the little stage thing, which sits behind a three-way mirror. My mother’s eyes fill with tears when she sees me in the dress. I turn and look at myself, since I’m not even sure what it looks like, and uncontrollably, my eyes also fill with tears. Then, for a split second, I wonder if Evan would like the way I look in the dress ... is that weird?
This is it, this is the dress. It’s stunning. It’s exactly what I dreamed it would be. It’s shiny white satin, with a plain top and a princess waistline. It’s full to the floor with a modest train. It could not be more perfect. Mom is crying, I’m crying, and Emily is looking at us critically.
“That’s the wrong backline for you,” she declares authoritatively like a needle being ripped across a record.
We both stop crying and look at her.
“Because you are small-chested, you need a backline that goes straight across, not scooped.”
I whirl around, trying to catch a glimpse of my back, but I can’t really see it. I guess I’ll just have to take nasty Emily’s word for it. Mom sniffles once more, then says, “She’s right. Take it off.”
I head back to the dressing room to strip down naked in front of the lovely Emily again. It’s the first dress at the first store and I’m already exhausted.
By the end of the day, I have learned that Emily is actually one of the kinder women working in bridal couture, as they like to describe it. I have been called too skinny, too flabby, and one woman actually suggested I get breast implants for the big day! Another woman didn’t even greet me before proclaiming, “You can’t wear white,” even though my dream dress is undoubtedly white, and another woman actually said that I could wear strapless but I’d be sorry. Not to mention the two places that sent us away immediately because nine months before the wedding did not give them enough time! These people are cruel and insane.
Halfway through the day, Mom relented and let me have a small salad. I literally thought I was going to die, and while a salad usually doesn’t fill me up, in my highly starved state it did enough to give me a small amount of energy, but mostly what kept me going was the drive to get it over with and get Mom back on her way to Connecticut. We finally arrive at Barney’s, our last stop of the day.
I’ve always been a big fan of Barney’s—not so much for the shopping, since I can’t afford much of what they sell, but for the fact that they have a restaurant right there in the store, and a good one at that. We make our way up the escalators to the bridal salon and are greeted by a friendly lady, about my mother’s age. She introduces herself as Helen and offers us coffee and madeleines. I love madeleines, I love coffee, and now I love Helen!
I make a mental note to definitely add her to the wedding list—heck, maybe I’ll give her Jamie’s matron-of-honor spot—as Helen leads me back to the lovely
bridal fitting room. She politely waits outside the room until I am undressed, and although I’ve become accustomed to being treated like bridal cattle today, I am greatly relieved to be treated like a human once again. Then things get even better. . . I find the dress ... MY dress. It is beyond stunning, beyond beautiful, and above and beyond anything we have seen today. The top is plain, simple and elegant. Around my waist is a wide sash that ties in a knot at the back. The fabric for the sash knot is so long that the excess hangs all the way down to the ground, creating a small train. It’s just the right amount of A-line, so it looks full without looking antebellum and the backline is straight across (since our appointment with Emily I’ve become extremely back-conscious). This is the dress, I absolutely know it, and I know my mom knows it, too, when I look at her.
“This is the one,” we say to each other at the exact same time.
“This is the one,” we turn and say to Helen in unison.
“I thought it might be,” Helen says wisely.
Mom stands up and hugs me, we cry again, then I change back into my regular clothes and we both hug Helen and cry before leaving the store. In the end, wedding-dress shopping wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined it in all my bridal fantasies, but I’m determined not to let tiny hardships like being insulted by half the bridal salons in Manhattan take away from my happiness. I can’t wait to get home and tell Justin all about it ... I wonder if it’s bad luck to tell your fake, gay groom what your wedding dress looks like ...
34
Date Number Two
As exciting as yesterday was ... finding my dream wedding dress and all ... part of my mind was not there. Part of my mind couldn’t stop thinking about Evan and the excitement of our second date. I won’t lie and tell you that I wasn’t a little disappointed and surprised when he suggested lunch, but it is a school night, so I suppose it’s for the best.
I spend Sunday morning going back and forth between worrying about what to wear to a lunch date and worrying about what I will tell Justin. In the end I decide to wear a moderately low V-neck, camel-colored sweater with some ultralow-rise jeans and a conspicuously empty ring finger, and to tell Justin that I am going to the 99 Cents store. I had to come up with an errand that he wouldn’t want any part of. With a straight guy you can name any store and they will do anything to get out of it ... with a gay guy, most likely they’ll want to tag along. The 99 Cents store is the exception—no self-respecting gay man would be caught dead there.
Not Quite A Bride Page 15