Weddings create their own weather. I had no idea. I did not have a big wedding myself. It was spontaneous and the only white article of clothing I had that wild night in the Hollywood Hills was my white satin nightgown. I sometimes regretted that I did not have the confidence to have a real wedding. Now, my daughter is to be married next month, here, in my home, and the village and I am caught up in the matrimonial turbulence. One such storm, the wedding wardrobe.
In the spring, she searched for her dress. The wedding dress! She bought one in one of those upper-end consignment shops in L.A. She was so excited and sent a photo to my phone.
It must have been a dress worn in the elegant and exuberant Forties. Antique delicately pleated chiffon and lace, embroidered slim lace sleeves. Gorgeous. It complimented her shape and personality. Light-hearted and elegant, antique, unique. I texted, I love it,
Weeks later, she called. She found another dress and bought it. She sent me a picture.
What happened to the other one?
Well, I panicked when I heard my friends’ reactions.
What reactions?
Things like, you’re going to keep looking, right? Or another one: There’s a lot going on there. One good friend just said, “Oh.” My daughter laughed. Just, “oh.” I knew I was in trouble.The television actress friend: What’s the look you’re going for? A Southern belle?
The Cal Arts friend: It’s not what I pictured you in.
An animator/editor and my daughter’s co-worker: I pictured you more 1920’s.
Her Dutch friend at Cal Arts: You can really be a goddess when you want to be, but this isn’t the most flattering. But the friend’s husband, a landscape painter, loved the dress: You look like Priscilla Presley, he said.
Priscilla Presley? Really? My daughter laughed. You see, a wedding dress can be divisive even in one family.
I clicked on the photo of the new wedding gown. It was one of those sleek, white satin, slip-looking wedding dresses, the Vera Wang kind of wedding dress, popular these days, also from a consignment store, thus reasonably priced. Lovely, but . . . you’ve decided not to wear the first dress?
I’ve decided to wear that dress in the ceremony, but what I realize even after the seamstress work, I can’t lift my arms to put around his neck when we dance. I’ll have to put my arms around his waist like a man. But I do love it and will wear it for the ceremony and then will have a costume change into the other gown for the reception and dance. She had not given up her original vision. Perfect.
Ever since the wedding date was set, my friends needled me. You’re the mother of the bride, so what are you wearing? I had never thought about it, really. Mother of the bride. That’s a serious role and title. Spring and summer slipped by and I had done nothing about THE DRESS. There were so many other wedding decisions and details. Friends sent me links and advice. I grew anxious. I had to find a dress. I jumped on-line and typed in mother of the bride. And the most god-awful ugly, cocktail dresses popped up. I hated every single one.
And as we all know, once AI knows, a multitude of dresses bombarded me, danced across my screen. I have never ever bought anything on my phone. But then, one afternoon, in my kitchen, while feeding the dog, a dress appeared. It was a fleeting video of a burnished bronze-gold kind of dress and the model strolled and the dress swirled and fluttered around her slim legs. I clicked. I bought it. I was breathless and scared. And soon realized, because I’m not adept at buying clothes and especially online, the dress was being sent to the wrong address. I panicked. Called the credit card company and tried to cancel. No luck. It had to process and then I could file. I tried the “chat” with the company, but they were ‘away from their desk.’ I looked up the company and their address, a city in China. Fortunately, the wrong address was someone I knew and I let them know; they would send it to me.
What was I thinking? That dress was for someone twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter, and five foot nine. I had lost my mind. I had imagined myself as some Gustav Klimt painting, The Lady in Gold. When the dress arrived, I left it in its box for days, not daring to try it on and face my ridiculous fantasy. I was going to send it back anyway. Get it over with. Finally I had to face it. Late one afternoon, I slipped it on, dreading the sight of me in the mirror.
A burnished golden fabric fell from shoulders to ankles. Soft, drapey, light in just the right way, and most importantly comfortable with elastic waist and the top cut on the bias, loosely falling over my waist, long enough to cover my tummy. Silky, autumnal, shimmering. So pretty, so mother of the bride. How could it be? Perfect.
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