This is it….

This is it. This is how I am going to die. I am suffocating to death. I cannot breathe, I can hardly move. Every breath that I do take is a struggle, a push against my chest that falls desperately short. I long to take a big breath, to open my lungs fully, but I can’t. I am strapped in, as tight as tight can be, not to mention I am sure that at some point I have been stabbed in the side and I must be bleeding profusely. It’s the only explanation for the pain in my lower abdomen. This is it. This is how I am going to die. While my mother and two of my bridesmaids look on as I try on wedding dresses.

It might sound melodramatic, but that is how I felt. Because there isn’t exactly an abundance of dresses in a size 22, the assistant at the shop decided to stuff me into a dress that was a size too small. And it wasn’t just that, I was also put into a bra/corset combo that was also a size too small. When all was said and done I looked darn gorgeous, but could hardly breathe or think.

The whole dress buying phenomenon, much like the wedding phenomenon as a whole, is pretty darn ridiculous. And I went VERY low end. It felt like a very surreal and strange experience.

I had gotten a taste a year before, when as an assistant on a web talk show for curvy women, I ended up on screen as a model in a plus size wedding dress shop. That day I only tried on one dress, provided by the assistant and it was one of the most amazing things I’d ever worn. She set the dress on the ground and had me step into the beautiful and lush pile of satin and other materials (I did not get an A in home ec, ok, I have no idea what the fabric was) and she brought the entire dress up around me and zipped me in. I felt incredible. I felt like I was decorated in soft frosting just like a cupcake. And to see the look, I was at a loss for words. One dress had transformed my look. I was instantly beautiful, like a woman version of cup of soup, just add dress. It was a joy to see myself in a wedding dress, but it was also a very profound sadness because at the end of the day, I was not going to take the dress home, and I was not going home to my fiance, and I was not getting married. Little did I know that the forces of my future marriage were already at play.

Entering the bridal shop this time, I was prepared by my previous experience. There was no way that I could fly back to LA to try on dresses in that shop, and there was certainly no way I could afford a dress in that shop, so I went to smaller outlet instead in the hopes that I could find a similar look and feeling for a much lower price.

My two bridesmaids, Jennie and Jess, accompanied my mother and I. The process is easy. The first thing you do is sit at a desk and talk about the dresses, the groom, the payment. Then you are let loose on the dresses. I stuck to the womens section, no need to get off course and lust after a dress not made in my size. It’s not worth anyones time. Between the four of us, we must have pulled out 10–15 dresses, all varying styles and types.

One dress caught my eye. It had done so on the website too. It was long, simple, with a drop waist and lots of ruching. I pulled out a version of it and hung it in my stack along with all of the others.

The assistant had me pick my top three. Why it wasn’t in there, I will never know. Instead I picked an assortment of dresses that were beautiful, but not quite me. She fitted me into each one as best as she could, each one falling short. Too tight and I could see all my fat, not pretty, too embellished, pretty but not the right one, pretty but just too much, too stiff, didn’t like the sleeves.

Finally Jennie noticed that we had been missing one dress. She knew we had to find it, asked me if I wanted it, and went on a hunt for it. She brought it back to the sales assistant, who was helping two other women at the same time. The sales assistant opened the dress and brought it into the room with me.

I would be lying if I didn’t say there was always a little buzz about that dress from the moment I saw it online. I could see myself in it. Of all the mannequins in the store, only one represented the plus size section, and it was wearing that dress. Or maybe it’s just the only one I saw. From start to finish, I could not take my eyes off of it. She unzipped the dress and helped place it over my head, and then all the way down my body.

One of the terrible and wonderful things about the dressing rooms at bridal shops is that there are no mirrors in the changing room, so you do not see what you look like until you exit the room. It is truly terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. Some of the dresses, had I seen them in the room, I would have stopped there and asked for a new dress. But for this dress, waiting for the reveal was priceless.

I looked down at it before I left the room and as she was pulling up the zipper. It looked like the icing that the other one did. It was so lush and soft and amazing. When she finally opened the door and I walked out, I was so happy. I was beyond happy. This was it. This was the dress, but it was lacking something. Another assistant from another part of the store rushed in a tied a belt around me and I was in awe. Noticing, the assistant grabbed a veil and put it on my head. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror and cried. I’m crying now as I write this. This dress, this magical mix of fabric was the look. This was THE dress. This is how I was going to get married.

My mom got pictures. She cried. We all bonded and approval was passed. This was the dress. A few changes, a different veil, a different headpiece, and the entire ensemble was put together. I had my wedding dress, and for the first time since I had been engaged, I finally felt like it was all really real. I could see myself in this dress walking down the aisle to meet my Andrew, to become his wife. This is the last dress I would wear as a single woman, and the first dress I would wear as a married woman, and I knew in my heart that it was my perfect dress.

I had entirely bought into the hoopla. And I kinda didn’t care. I had a dress.