July 14, 2013 by E.
I’m back in DC after spending the weekend in North Carolina, shopping for THE Dress. That’s right, after procrastinating for as long as I could, I steeled myself, emotionally and financially, for the last major “to-do” on my wedding planning check-list.
Buying a wedding dress.
Out of all the wedding decisions I’ve had to make, the one that has made the most nervous, the one that has kept me up at night, has been the dress. What kind I wanted, how much the budget should be, whether I would go traditional or modern. Strapless or one-shouldered. White or ivory. Lace or satin. Sleek or fluffy. Whether I would be able to incorporate my the veil my mom wore with her wedding dress into a new bridal look of my own. And whether, after seeing me in this dress, A. would still want to marry me.
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
This guy has seen me at 6AM with no makeup and tells me I’m beautiful. He’s seen me through absolutely breakdowns, times when I would just collapse to the floor sobbing because I was so miserable in my job and my life in DC without him. He’s seen me after long workouts, when I’m dripping sweat, smelly and red in the face. He’s put up with my mood swings, my ditzy moments, my adventurous and sometimes questionable restaurant picks, and much worse. Yet he still loves me. Even if he didn’t tell me every day, I’d still know. I’d know because he brings me fresh flowers, picks up my favorite pistachio gelato from the grocery store, rubs my back when I’m exhausted, and holds me when I need it.
But still, for the past month, I’ve been harboring this wildly irrational fear that A. will hate my wedding dress. I’ve even had a few dreams that involve me on the Big Day, minutes before the ceremony begins, discovering that my wedding dress has been swapped out for a purple fluffy monstrosity of a gown. Both of these scenarios end up with me, walking down the aisle to music, only to find that I’ve been left alone at the altar, A. too ashamed and repulsed by my awful fashion taste to consider making me his wife. What would Freud make of that, I wonder.
Despite all these absurd thoughts flying around my head as I stepped into my first bridal boutique, the dress I ended up choosing was the 5th one I tried. I believe it’s perfect (and it damn well better be, for how much it cost), and I believe A. will love it. And if he doesn’t, I know at least I’ll be left alone at the altar in a gorgeous, non-purple, dress.