Hey, it’s Brooke. Long time, no write. I’m not going to make excuses like Dan – cause let’s be honest, this isn’t my blog and I owe you people nothing. But today, I thought I’d write. Is it because my new position in corporate American is slowly sucking out of my soul? No, I love my job. Go team! It’s because sometimes people need a creative outlet where they can say things like cock-sucking, motherfucking whore bag, and not be censored, you know? Also, I’m so happy! To be engaged. And I wanted to share my first bride-ish experience: dress shopping.
See, every little girl dreams of getting married. Except me. I dreamed of living alone in a massive hotel suite, where I was beautiful, famous, and fascinatingly eccentric (a cross between Greta Garbo and Miss Havisham). And I had teams of servants would bring me anything I wanted, and I’d never have to make my bed. Ever. As I got older, I always prided myself on being a non-girlie girl. Not that I don’t like clothes and shoes – I do. But I don’t want to spend the day chitchatting with a girlfriend about her fight with some other girlfriend while shopping for said clothes and shoes. I want to drink scotch and shop online. So the idea of planning a wedding seemed, hmm, not fun. Daunting. Horrible.
Why not elope, you ask. There was just one problem. No, it was not Dan’s mom, who said to me a year ago, “I’m not sure what’s taking so long, but if you guys want to elope I support you.” Nor was it my dad, who when I call to say I have news, always shouts with joy, “You’re pregnant!” No, there was no family pressure. But here’s the thing: I like the nightlife. I like to boogie. And while the idea of picking out tablecloths or discussing the seasonal availability of hydrangeas makes me want to die, I did, it turns out, want to commemorate our marriage with more than a celebratory smoke and a pocket pair at the poker table.
So we decide to have a wedding. And I tell friend Kristen, who I wouldn’t call a girlie girl (because she reads this), but I will say that her boyfriend once walked in on her stuffing wedding magazines under the couch like fetish porn. So the lovely Kristen sets up some wedding dress appointments (did you know you need an appointment to shop for a wedding dress? I did not). And I reluctantly meet her and friend Jess on a Saturday at a wedding dress shop. I walk in to the showroom: lace, chiffon, white clouds of tulle for miles – it’s a billowing sea of estrogen. They take us into the private dressing room, with the three way mirror and the pedestal and flatteringly lighting. The dress consultant (real person, real job) gives me a white corset to change into. Then she and my pals go raid the showroom. I sit sullenly in the dressing room, wearing my corset like a half-dressed Bridal Barbie.
Ten minutes later, three giddy girls return with cascades of white fabric – and it begins. I step into the first gown. The consultant clips me in (they use industrial-strength clothing pins). I slowly, carefully, get up on the pedestal and turn to face the mirror. And that’s when it happens. I am a princess! I am a beautiful, magical princess. I want to melt into the sweet, soft petals of silk. I want to prance around while holding the train in my hands. And more than anything, I want every ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had to walk in at that moment and see me – this me! this perfect me! – forever washing away his previous image of me screaming and throwing my cell phone at him. This is the effect of trying on a wedding dress.
You suddenly, shockingly, become that girl.
But don't worry – while you can’t take the dress out of the girl, you can take the girl out of the dress. You know, for sex. (Bam, I still got it.)