Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall

by Kjerstin Gruys

  This ended up being a good thing; my final dress fitting was scheduled for that afternoon. I didn’t feel nervous at all; I felt brave. Carelessly, recklessly brave.

  Lisa took the bus from campus to my place, arriving forty magical minutes early. We caught up for a few moments, but then realized we were both really, really hungry. Looking a little bit miserable, Lisa hesitantly suggested that we could wait until after the fitting and then enjoy a proper meal together. The unspoken assumption was that I probably wanted to be a little bit starving when I tried on my dress. You know: empty stomach = littler stomach = tears of joy when said stomach looked less chubby in my wedding gown. Except, of course, something about that equation was totally dumb. I mean, if a little food in my tummy was going to prevent my dress from fitting, shouldn’t I want to know now, rather than on October 1? After all, I was planning to enjoy food on my wedding day. If anything, I needed to make sure that my dress had room for an expanding midsection.

  Emboldened, we quickly ventured out to the nearest burger joint. If you didn’t know this already, Los Angeles is a burger city, so I never found myself far away from a fix when I developed this particular craving. On this day, we landed at the nearest dive, and I opted for the Burger of the Week, which was innocently described as a Cheesesteak Burger. And sweet potato fries.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but when my meal arrived I realized that I’d essentially ordered the innards of a huge Philly cheesesteak piled on top of an already huge hamburger. It was two sandwiches in one. A chimera sandwich, if you will. Well, I won’t bore you with the details of how amazingly delicious this was, but let’s just say I managed to eat every bite. Since it took me both hands to eat my monster burger, Lisa ended up downing a hefty share of the awesome sweet potato fries, but I was okay with that. A girl has to prioritize, no?

  Lisa and I were both super nervous about handling my dress with burger juice on our hands, and the burger stand didn’t have a restroom. We cleaned up as best we could using paper towels and wet wipes. Then we headed over to see crazy Jenny, running a few minutes late.

  The first thing I noticed once we arrived was that the neckline of my dress looked a bit wonky. Let’s call it a Monet neckline; it looked decent from across the room, but kind of sloppy once I saw it up close. I knew that Jenny had actually cut the fabric in order to make this alteration, so there was no way to undo it. Bummer. I asked Lisa if she thought it looked okay, and she shrugged. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” At least it looked fine from a distance, I thought. My next thought surprised me: Besides, who cares? Indeed.

  The moment I started thinking “Who cares?” things went extremely well. The dress felt amazing on my body; after a decent belch, the gown zipped up over my full-term food-baby without complaint. Lisa did all of the required oohing and aahing, which made me feel quite bridal, despite my full gut and absent eyelashes. I wiggled my hips, chicken dance–style, and squealed with excitement. It was one of those epic true bridal moments, hamburger grease and all.

  On my drive home I decided it might have gone so well because of the full belly and hamburger grease, and especially because of the “Who cares?” How lovely to know that a bride-to-be can say “Oh fuck it” and then get exactly what she wants. Despite the craziness that it took to get there, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  • • •

  THAT SUNDAY WAS THE FIRST OPEN HOUSE FOR MY CONDO. IN preparation, I carefully removed all the curtains covering the mirrors. No vampires live here! I said to myself, satisfied. I was pleased with how everything looked, but now that my room was filled with reflective surfaces again, it felt a bit dangerous. To avoid seeing myself, I spent most of the day in my office at UCLA, but once back at home I had to implement different strategies. I forced myself to adopt a slouching, stare-at-the-ground posture to avoid making eye contact with myself, but it wasn’t comfortable and certainly didn’t feel very bridal. This wasn’t going to work. I didn’t want to go through all the effort of covering the mirrors again, so I had to figure out another way to get through the next twelve hours. I opted for the simplest strategy I could think of: I took my contact lenses out and kept my glasses off. My blurred vision wrapped a fuzzy cocoon around me. Sure, I probably saw more reflections of myself than usual, but they looked to me like blotches of color. As with other areas of life, good enough would be good enough!

  • • •

  I DROVE BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO THE NEXT DAY, AND MY MOM arrived a few days later. A former coworker of hers, who was also a friend of mine, was getting married exactly six days before my wedding, and we were both excited to go to the event together. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to do a trial of my wedding hairstyle, which had been chosen by my blog readers in a poll, and really see how well my chosen updo would hold up for a long event.

  My mom liked the look, which was good enough for me, but a lot of pieces had fallen out by the end of the night; I’d have to request extra hairspray for my own event. But more important, my mom’s close scrutinizing of my hairstyle had led her to notice my lashes, or lack thereof.

  My mom was probably the only person on the planet who would notice a change in my eyelashes. Blushing, I mumbled my horror story about the extensions and prepared myself for a lecture. But she just laughed. “I wish I could have seen how they looked! Maybe they weren’t as bad as you thought.”

  “I saw the look on Abby’s face, and that’s all I needed to know!” I responded. “But I wish you’d been there, too, so you could have warned me before that!”

  Staying in my condo by myself over the past few days had revealed to me how much I’d come to rely on my friends and family to be my mirrors when I needed it. Maybe that whole “practice trust” thing had finally kicked in? I hoped so.

  Now all that was left to do was to get married.

  EIGHT

  October

  MY BIG FAT MIRRORLESS WEDDING

  Family faces are magic mirrors looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present, and future.

  GAIL LUMET BUCKLEY

  ON THE AFTERNOON OF SEPTEMBER 30, IN THE MIDST OF all the chaos that shows up on the day before one’s wedding, I found myself alone in my apartment for a spell. Michael had left to help pick up family and friends from the airport, and my mom and Aunt Sarah were off shopping for last-minute table decorations. I was waiting for Hanna and Peter to pick me up at my apartment so we could all drive down together. I was really looking forward to spending this hour-long drive with my siblings. By some odd miracle, Hanna was running late for the first time in her life. Then again, she was with Peter, who had probably never been on time to anything before. I should have been mad, but instead I was relieved.

  With my mom and aunt in town for the past week, I hadn’t had any time to myself in days. Constant socialization is torture for an introvert, even a closeted one like me; I’d compare it to not being allowed to sleep. Time alone is when I regroup and recharge. Because of this, having an hour and a half all to myself felt amazing, especially since it occurred just before all of the weekend’s official events would start. I had a moment of calm before the storm.

  I sat quietly on my bed for a few minutes. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I’d planned and anticipated this weekend for months. Every detail had been carefully contemplated, from the wording of our vows to the color of my toenail polish (blue, to finalize my collection of old, new, and borrowed items). Yet I realized that if I wasn’t careful, it might all pass by in a blur. This worried me. I wanted to feel present at my wedding, to enjoy the events as they unfolded and to consciously fill my memory bank with special moments.

  I was in the middle of one such special moment: alone with my own thoughts of what was about to happen. I really wanted to look at myself in the mirror. I needed to reconnect with myself, and looking at myself in the mirror had been my means to this end for years.

  Oh n
o, you don’t! I chided myself. Not gonna happen. Not now, not tomorrow. Hold yourself together!

  Easier said than done. I was on the brink of a major life transition, and I wanted to consciously honor this moment for myself. If I couldn’t do it my usual way, I’d need to find another. Journaling was my second drug of choice.

  I wrote a list of all of the special moments I wanted to remember. I started with the very moment I was in, and added several more: driving to the rehearsal dinner with Hanna and Peter; getting ready with all of my bridesmaids, my chosen family of amazing girlfriends; feeling my dad’s steady hand as I walked down the aisle; seeing all of my grandparents, all alive and well, smiling at me on my way to the altar; making eye contact with Michael before our vows; enjoying every delicious bite of food and sip of wine during the reception.

  As I wrote each thing, I imagined myself pressing the pause button on an internal remote. I wouldn’t be able to remember every moment of the weekend, but I promised myself that the ones on my list wouldn’t pass by on fast-forward.

  Just as I finished up the list, my phone rang. Hanna and Peter were parked outside. It was time to go, and I was ready.

  • • •

  THAT EVENING’S REHEARSAL DINNER WAS A WONDERFUL opportunity to spend time catching up with friends and family. The speeches were epic and the food was wonderful. Sherry and Doug had really outdone themselves to make it a welcoming and festive event. We all laughed at the thorough roasting that Michael’s groomsmen gave him. On the other side of the spectrum, my brother, Peter, gave a heartfelt speech that brought tears to my eyes and really brought down the house. It was the perfect kickoff to what was sure to be an amazing weekend.

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP EARLY TO THE SOUNDS OF MY sister and the hairdresser setting up in the other room. I’d asked Hanna to take the first turn getting her hair styled, since she’s a morning person. Next would be my high school friend Honora, who also didn’t mind the early hour because she was on central time.

  I drifted back to sleep for what felt like mere seconds before the doors to our bedroom banged open loudly. Mandy, who had arrived for her own hair appointment, took a running leap and landed in bed with us.

  “Happy wedding day!” she shrieked. “Michael, you have to leave. Now! You shouldn’t look at Kjerstin until later.” Michael, still fast asleep, barely even moved.

  Where did she find the energy? I wondered. It was barely eight a.m., and we’d been out past one a.m. I was surprised and relieved that I wasn’t completely exhausted. I got up, threw on a pair of baggy jeans and an old tank top, and checked the clock, realizing that I still had time to kill.

  Finally, two hours later, it was my turn to sit in the hairdresser’s chair. Feeling brave, I told her, “The same thing as my trial, but with more hairspray and bobby pins. Can we do it with an Audrey Hepburn poof thing going on at the crown?”

  “No problem, I’m on it!” she said, armed with a can of hairspray and a teasing comb. I settled into the chair and tried to relax. With impeccable timing, Hanna opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for everyone.

  The hairdresser had just finished dousing my head with hairspray when I realized we had only an hour left before it was time to head over to the ceremony venue. I needed to get started on my makeup. I would be putting on my usual basics—foundation, blush, cream eye shadow—and makeup maven Mandy would help out with the finishing touches.

  When Mandy had finished, I stood up and started gathering my makeup. I saw a flash of myself in the mirror as I turned around to leave. It happened so fast that it barely registered in my brain, but I remember my head looking unusually big, as though I were a living Bratz doll. Hmm, must be my hair! I thought with a stab of anxiety. It was too late to change anything (and I had asked for big hair!), so I tempered my panic by chanting “good enough is good enough is good enough is good enough” over and over in my head.

  “Is my hair, like, crazy big?” I asked Mandy.

  “Naw, it’s good!” she replied. “Besides, remember what they say down south: The bigger the hair, the closer to God!”

  “Well, as long as it doesn’t look like a mistake . . .” I murmured, sighing.

  “Not at all. You’re the bride. Own it!” she countered. She had a point there.

  And so I decided to put my unusually big head out of my head. As long as it didn’t look like an accident (and Mandy swore that this was not the case), I would own it. Besides, what better time to be closer to God than on my wedding day?

  • • •

  THE ENTIRE WEDDING PARTY—BOTH BRIDESMAIDS AND groomsmen—loaded onto the shuttle taking us to the ceremony site, a small winery in Woodside, California. Even though tradition warns that grooms oughtn’t see brides before the wedding, we decided to be practical. Michael’s parents had generously offered to pay for shuttle transportation to and from the ceremony site, and it seemed wasteful to book separate shuttles for the men and women in the wedding party. Besides, I was wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top, so I probably looked like my regular self (save for the extra eye makeup and Bratz-doll head!).

  When we finally pulled up to the winery, our wedding photographers, Geoff and Lisa, were there to greet us. Seeing these two made me feel immediately more relaxed; I trusted them completely. The ladies and gentlemen split in different directions to get ready; Lisa came along with us, and Geoff tagged along with the guys.

  All of our hair was already done, but we still had to get dressed and touch up our makeup. When we got to the room, Mandy started helping me apply extra eyeliner as the other bridesmaids covered up the full-length mirror in the room. At first they attempted glamour by trying to drape it in silk pashminas. When this didn’t work, they opted for the practicality of paper towels and masking tape. Good enough is good enough! Once this was done, they all disappeared into the bathroom to put on their dresses and get ready in front of the bathroom mirror, which would remain uncovered.

  Reminding myself about my old, new, borrowed, and blue, I wrapped my great grandmother’s pearl necklace around my wrist to wear as a bracelet, fastened the new pearl necklace Sherry had made me around my neck, wrapped my bouquet in a lace hanky I was borrowing from Laila, and admired my dazzling Tiffany Blue–painted toenails.

  I headed to the bathroom so I could put on my wedding dress without flashing any unexpected visitors. I was careful to avoid seeing myself in the mirror as Hanna and Laila helped lift the dress over my head. I tiptoed back into the main room, barefoot and holding up the skirt of my dress in both hands. Hanna helped zip me up, and then, with Liz’s help, held me steady as I stepped into my monstrously high heels. I heard the rapid clicking of Lisa’s camera and looked up at her with a smile.

  “How do I look?” I asked the group. This was one of those bridal moments, and everybody knew it; squeals, clapping, and oohing and aahing ensued.

  “How do you think you look?” asked Laila.

  “I think I look great!” I replied as matter-of-factly as I could muster. I felt gorgeous. Everything—all of the shopping, tailoring, beauty routines, and pampering, not to mention the soul-searching—that had brought me to this prototypical bridal moment was etched into my memory, and as I stood among my closest friends, I felt exactly how I’d always hoped I would on my wedding day: confident, feminine, glamorous, and—most important—loved.

  I’d had my doubts in the weeks preceding my wedding, but right then, looking at myself in a mirror was suddenly not an option; I felt so good that I had nowhere to go but down. Suppose my hair wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, or maybe my eye makeup looked trampy, or perhaps my dress actually fit kind of weird? Any of these things—and who knew what else—might have been true. But so what? A quick glance in the mirror could have given me only one of two outcomes: Either I’d look exactly as amazing as I felt, or I’d look worse. The first couldn’t make me feel any happier, a
nd the second would only add unnecessary and unproductive stress.

  Did I believe—or even want to believe—that I looked perfect? No. I wasn’t delusional, just practical. I believed in all of my heart that I looked good enough, and good enough was exactly how I wanted to feel.

  There was only one thing left to do: I applied a swipe of strawberry lip gloss—the same one that I’d worn when Michael swooped in for that first kiss—and grabbed my bouquet. It was time to get hitched.

  • • •

  BEFORE I KNEW IT, THE GUESTS WERE ALL SEATED AND IT WAS time for the ceremony to start. We hurried outside, clomping up the gravel path in our teetering heels, to line up at the entrance of the ceremony site. Despite the beautiful view, it was surprisingly chilly. And windy. It was so windy, in fact, that my chapel-length veil began to blow around, out of control and into my face. I felt it smearily sticking to my lip gloss and feared that my voluminous updo was on the verge of becoming unhinged. I made my second executive decision of the day (the first having to do with my poofy hair).

  “I’m ditching the veil!” I announced as I hastily unpinned it by feel.

  Why had I wanted a veil in the first place? I wondered. Wedding veils have traditionally been associated with modesty and (virginal) purity, neither of which really applied to me. Worse, the groom’s removal of the bride’s veil is said to symbolize his taking possession of his wife, either as lover or as property. No thanks. Unveiling myself felt more aptly symbolic.

  I heard the beginnings of our recessional music and took a deep breath. One by one, my bridesmaids and their escorts disappeared to walk down the aisle. And then it was our turn. I looked up at my dad, who asked, “Are you ready?” I nodded, smiling, and gripped his arm more tightly.

  As I walked down the aisle, I did my best to smile and take in the view of my loved ones smiling back with support and encouragement. I looked down the aisle and locked eyes with Michael. He smiled at me, and then I watched with amusement as his face contorted into an awkward grimace. He was crying, but seemed to be fighting it with all the muscles in his face. Before that moment I’d never seen him cry. I remember thinking, Dang, Michael is an ugly crier! It wasn’t the most romantic of thoughts, but in truth I found the grimace endearing. I couldn’t help laughing, along with many of our guests, who had seen the same thing. The ice broke, and Michael wiped his eyes, laughing at himself.