Danielle Down the Aisle: Week 7/8

So, I said yes to the dress.

Well, kind of.

(And no, it isn’t that one).

What I actually said was, “I can’t find any problems with it,” and “Well, I can’t possibly imagine anything better, except they have to trim the grass.”

Along the neckline of this dress, there is some lace, and at the end of each part of the pattern, there is a tiny, eighth of an inch tall piece of white string. Or, as I’m calling it, wedding grass. “They really do have to trim the grass I said,” as I imagined myself, the night before the wedding, trimming each piece with a pair of fingernail clippers. Once she figured out what “grass” was, the bridal botique biddy said, “Oh, yes. Of course! That is very common.”

My mom even did a close up loop around and under before saying, “I really can’t find anything wrong with it.”

“The grass,” I said.

“They’ll cut the grass,” she said.

America’s multi-billion dollar wedding industry got to me — again. Somehow, I had convinced myself that I had to flip through several hundred wedding dress magazines, find my ideal style, then visit botique after boutique, bargain shop, look on amazon, watch for clearances, go back to pinterest, consider the weather and the time of year, search through racks and racks of gowns and ultimately bop some woman over the head with my handbag to secure my perfect wedding dress.

But, it wasn’t. It wasn’t waves of emotions or some sort of seminal crowning moment. In fact, it was a bit mechanical. I have body type A, which means I look best in dress type X. My skin tone is J, so my dress color should be F. I feel this way about sparkles, lace, tule and jewels, so, crank, crank, spin, slam — here’s the dress that fits you best.

And, you know what? It did.

And to be fair, when I slipped the dress on with the birdal biddies help, I did say, “Oh, I think this is the one.” But, without the heart-pounding, throat-thickening…

I can’t even find the word. It isn’t thrill and it isn’t excitement. It’s not happiness or love. Joy isn’t right. It’s almost like when the Grinch’s heart grows another size, and when you pick your puppy out at the pound and he licks your finger and it’s destiny, and when the last dress on the rack is just your size and it is marked down twice, all at once.

Which is ridiculous.

It’s just a dress. Clothing has never, ever touched me in the feels that way, so what an irrational expecatation.

Yet, I began to second guess myself.

I had always pictured a glamorous, princess-for-a-day situation. Or, at least many, many trips to various botiques across the city, looking for a beautiful bargain. I imagined a tracker. Many nights of discussion and side-by-side comparison on the iPad. So, I was stunned to find myself agreeing to buy something at the first shop — in less than two hours since I started looking.

I mean, I was just mastering the vocabulary: fit and flare v. A-line v. dropped A-line, v. ball gown. I didn’t even have all of the necklines commited to memory before we were signing on the dotted line.

And yet, all of this panic and consternation is absolutely ridiculous. My mom and Rachael, one of my bridesmaids (brides matrons?) both were enthusiastic yes’s. Then I texted the other girls in the bridal party.

Dani Marie: “Stunning.”

Sara: “OMG.”

And trust me, the women in my life are not the sort to fake that kind of response. Brutally, viciously honest is pretty high on my list of required attributes in my entourage.

So, maybe my shock is less about the dress itself, and more about the stunning reality that the wedding dress box (a pretty big and important box) was checked. It was just….done…before I really had time to wrap my mind around what was happening.

“That’s just how it is,” chorused the wise women who went down the aisle before me.

And maybe that’s a little scary too. Here’s this big life event, arguably the big life event that you plan for and celebrate with all the people you love the most — and it just comes and goes in a flash. I want to squeeze out every moment with them, but there just aren’t enough moments.

But, the dress is great.

And my people are great.

So, I’ll just have to deal with this existential crisis in due time.

Now, the boyfriend is the problem. I tried to make him buy a suit on Cyber Monday from the comfort of his kitchen, but he kept saying, “I don’t even know what worsted wool is,” and in saying so, has signed himself up to be the next project.