So we’re agreed, right, that bridesmaid dresses are suck and
bridesmaids all look bad, but it doesn’t matter at all, because you’re not
there to look good, but standing up because you love the bride and you love the
groom and no matter what, this is their special day and you will do anything
short of crazy kinky animal lovin’ to demonstrate this love. Am I right? I’m
right. High five, all you bridesmaids who have suffered for love, who have not been allowed to wear tuxes as would be right and proper and smokin’. High five.
What you need to know is that I really believed Carrie when
she said she wanted us to look lovely and the dresses would be simple and we
wouldn’t suffer. I believed it all the way through sending my measurements and
waiting to get the dress and panicking because the dress could be lost for all
time until I found it on the back of a homeless man, wandering down Judah
street and asking for quarters or a blowjob, all the way through its safe
arrival, all the way through tearing it opening and finding that the shade of
yellow was not a shade of butter or jaundice, all the way through admiring the
sash, all the way through pulling it over my head.
And we’re back at the mirror, and I’m looking at myself,
wearing a sack of a dress. It hangs straight from my shoulders, straight down.
It is as if the dressmaker made a rectangle and sewed it up the sides. It is a
pillowcase, a potato sack, a mess. There is no way it could be fixed, even,
because it is so fucking huge that the tailor would have to make an entirely
new dress. Even worse, it is not the shape I ordered–A line!–it has no waist,
there is no full skirt, and how can you fix that? You can’t fix that! There is
no reason to have worried so much about sending her my measurements, because
any person of any size could wear this dress and look just about exactly the
same, from HervÃ© Villechaize to The Rock. Any heavy-duty farm animal could wear
this dress. The Earth could wear this dress and maybe feel like a pretty pretty
princess, but you would not want to tell the Earth that it was no pretty pretty
princess, no sirree. Because the Earth would cut you.
Of course my first reaction was horror, because what is
wrong with my body, that a woman–even sight unseen! Even from three thousand
miles away!–couldn’t make a dress that approximates my general shape and
dimensions? All I could think was that, okay, she had been told, I was a big
girl, way back at the beginning of the process of picking out dresses and
making plans for their construction. And she had been told I would be losing
weight. A whole lot of weight. Maybe, maybe she didn’t believe it. Maybe she
got my measurements, and scoffed. A real live scoff, which I wish I had been
there for, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scoff in person. Maybe she
thought "oh, fat girl thinks she’s this size. But what she really is, is
the size of a planet which orbits the sun. And she should really get her head
straight. Here, I will help her! Here is a sack! For which I will charge A
MILLION DOLLARS!" and then she laughed and drank milk straight out of the
That’s right. I get a bridesmaid dress that is too big for
me, and I immediately thought I was being taught a lesson. This is how my mind
works, people! This is the extent of my insanity and the depths of my flashes
of psychotic-grade self-absorption. I maintain it happens to everyone. I just
wish they all had blogs, too. But after my fifteen seconds of personality
disorder, I realized that me and my dumb dress and broken body were going to
ruin the wedding. I will ruin the wedding! I will be the ugly troll bridesmaid
of doom who will fuck up all the pictures and look ridiculous and stupid and I
might as well pick my nose all the way through the ceremony. And how do I tell
Carrie that her dressmaker fucked up? I can’t do that! She’s the bride! She has
enough to fucking worry about! She must never
I called my mom and panicked. In tears, I was panicking. Everything is ruined! Nothing will be right
again. She was wonderfully commiserating, indignant on my behalf, and she
talked me down. "Take it to the tailor," she said. "It can’t be
that bad," she said. "No! It can’t be fixed!" I wailed.
"Shh," my mother said, and I sniffled and settled down. Then, my
brother called, just to say hey! and I burst into tears. "Oh man," my
brother said. "I ruined everything!"
I said. "Take it to the tailor," my brother said, and I burst into
tears again. "Don’t tell Carrie, okay! Don’t tell her!" He agreed not
to tell her. He said things would be fine. Hours later, Carrie called, and I
burst into tears. "He wasn’t supposed to tell you!" I wailed.
"It’s okay," she said. "Take it to the tailor."
"Okay," I said. I took it to the tailor the next morning and begged
"Yeesh," the tailor said. He yanked it around,
tucking it in at the waist, folding it over at the darts I hadn’t even noticed–darts!
This thing is supposed to have shape? "Yes yes!" the little Russian
man said. "You see? We fold here, we pin. You see it is okay, right?"
He pinned all the way down each side, all the way down each dart. "Can you
make it a little smaller in the waist?" I asked. "You have a very
small waist," he said. "Too much, and you see, the butt?" and he
demonstrated how the fabric in back bunched. Somehow, I managed not to tell him
"See! I told you I have a big butt!" But I
looked in the mirror, and the dress had a shape; I had a shape. I was not
He folds, he pins, he charges me sixty bucks I do not have,
it is okay, right? I believe it’s going to be a beautiful wedding.