the off spring of a cow and anogre. The cellulite on the backs of my thighs tingled a warning signal at me, as if to say, “Get out while you still have your dignity!”
But I didn’t listen. The siren call of the runway in the center of the enormous shop was too much for me. I sucked in my gut, plastered a confident-ish smile on my face and introduced myself.
She looked me slowly up and down, one delicate hand twirling a silky strand of dark hair. She frowned slightly, her impeccably waxed eyebrows coming together in an expression of thoughtful confusion. I could practically hear what she was thinking: What could possibly disguise those flabby arms without accentuating her pear-shaped hips? (This was before I had gotten in shape for the wedding, after all. But still.)
“What do you think would look best on you?” she asked me. The emphasis on you made it seem like she very much doubted my fashion sense. I mean, I was wearing old yoga pants and a shirt with a built-in bra, but isn’t that what most gals would wear when planning to spend an entire day trying on dresses?
I’m just glad I’d been planning my wedding gown from the moment I popped out of the womb, because I had a firm answer for her: “I want the biggest ball gown you’ve got. Strapless.”
She smiled, her glossy lips turning up even as her eyes lingered on my upper arms as if to remind me that a strapless gown would do nothing to hide the lard-filled wings that flopped from my biceps whenever I moved.
I reminded myself that from her point of view, in which Kate Moss represented the ideal body type, my slightly undefined triceps muscles would appear offensively large. And, yes, I did need to do more dips at the gym. But I was a former college athlete, and I knew how to get myself toned. Sure, I could stand to lose ten pounds or so, but I tried to remember that I wasn’t as grossly obese as her expression implied. A strapless gown would look lovely on me. I might just need to live on celery and water for a month before the wedding.
I smiled back. “Yep,” I said. “A strapless ball gown.”
“Great!” she chirped. “And what budget are we working with?”
As she asked, she began to usher my mom, Molly and me to a corner of the store where I could see deliciously poofy-looking skirts dangling beneath delicate-boned bodices.
“Uh…I was thinking maybe around a thousand bucks? I guess I could go up to fifteen hundred if it was perfect enough. Does that sound about right to you, Mommy?” I looked at my mom and Molly, hoping that I hadn’t just named an offensively outrageous sum of money.
“Or less, ” my mom stated, seemingly unfazed by this evil bird of a woman.
The heroin-chic salesgirl stopped in her tracks. I could practically hear the soles of her patent-leather ballet flats screech on the floor. With a poisonous look in her eyes, she rounded on me.
“I’m not sure if you know how much a high-fashion dress costs in an upscale shop like ours, but you really need to reconsider how much you’re willing to spend on the most important gown you’ll ever wear. ” The bangles on her wrists jangled as she stabbed her tiny hands through the air to emphasize her point.
Suddenly, she looked down and stopped midsnarl. I saw her eyes light on my mom’s robin’s egg blue Christian Louboutin pumps (bought for 90 percent off their usual $900 price tag at Nordstrom Rack). The sight of high-end shoes seemed to calm her.
“I mean,” she tittered, taking on the tone of a concerned friend, “you wouldn’t want to pass up the gown of your dreams just because you’re letting a silly little thing like budget get in the way, would you?”
“I…I…” I stammered.
I think I was suffering from temporary insanity due to couture vapors, because if I were treated this way in any other circumstance, I would have flashed her my pleasantly plump middle finger and gone out for a burger. But here, in this tulle-draped shop that looked as though
But I didn’t listen. The siren call of the runway in the center of the enormous shop was too much for me. I sucked in my gut, plastered a confident-ish smile on my face and introduced myself.
She looked me slowly up and down, one delicate hand twirling a silky strand of dark hair. She frowned slightly, her impeccably waxed eyebrows coming together in an expression of thoughtful confusion. I could practically hear what she was thinking: What could possibly disguise those flabby arms without accentuating her pear-shaped hips? (This was before I had gotten in shape for the wedding, after all. But still.)
“What do you think would look best on you?” she asked me. The emphasis on you made it seem like she very much doubted my fashion sense. I mean, I was wearing old yoga pants and a shirt with a built-in bra, but isn’t that what most gals would wear when planning to spend an entire day trying on dresses?
I’m just glad I’d been planning my wedding gown from the moment I popped out of the womb, because I had a firm answer for her: “I want the biggest ball gown you’ve got. Strapless.”
She smiled, her glossy lips turning up even as her eyes lingered on my upper arms as if to remind me that a strapless gown would do nothing to hide the lard-filled wings that flopped from my biceps whenever I moved.
I reminded myself that from her point of view, in which Kate Moss represented the ideal body type, my slightly undefined triceps muscles would appear offensively large. And, yes, I did need to do more dips at the gym. But I was a former college athlete, and I knew how to get myself toned. Sure, I could stand to lose ten pounds or so, but I tried to remember that I wasn’t as grossly obese as her expression implied. A strapless gown would look lovely on me. I might just need to live on celery and water for a month before the wedding.
I smiled back. “Yep,” I said. “A strapless ball gown.”
“Great!” she chirped. “And what budget are we working with?”
As she asked, she began to usher my mom, Molly and me to a corner of the store where I could see deliciously poofy-looking skirts dangling beneath delicate-boned bodices.
“Uh…I was thinking maybe around a thousand bucks? I guess I could go up to fifteen hundred if it was perfect enough. Does that sound about right to you, Mommy?” I looked at my mom and Molly, hoping that I hadn’t just named an offensively outrageous sum of money.
“Or less, ” my mom stated, seemingly unfazed by this evil bird of a woman.
The heroin-chic salesgirl stopped in her tracks. I could practically hear the soles of her patent-leather ballet flats screech on the floor. With a poisonous look in her eyes, she rounded on me.
“I’m not sure if you know how much a high-fashion dress costs in an upscale shop like ours, but you really need to reconsider how much you’re willing to spend on the most important gown you’ll ever wear. ” The bangles on her wrists jangled as she stabbed her tiny hands through the air to emphasize her point.
Suddenly, she looked down and stopped midsnarl. I saw her eyes light on my mom’s robin’s egg blue Christian Louboutin pumps (bought for 90 percent off their usual $900 price tag at Nordstrom Rack). The sight of high-end shoes seemed to calm her.
“I mean,” she tittered, taking on the tone of a concerned friend, “you wouldn’t want to pass up the gown of your dreams just because you’re letting a silly little thing like budget get in the way, would you?”
“I…I…” I stammered.
I think I was suffering from temporary insanity due to couture vapors, because if I were treated this way in any other circumstance, I would have flashed her my pleasantly plump middle finger and gone out for a burger. But here, in this tulle-draped shop that looked as though
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