A Bridal Vignette

My dear friend Caroline just got married, my dear friend Kim just got engaged, my dear friend/manager Michaela also just got engaged, and even one of my favorite bloggers Holly (of Nothing But Bonfires) was recently pledged to wed. Congratulations to you all!

As Caroline knows and Kim, Michaela, and Holly will soon find out, when planning a wedding you'll run into either the most accommodating, friendly people or...the other kind of people. The kind who give off the vibe of "somebody peed in my coffee this morning, and I drank it anyway out of sheer spite."

One of my favorite wedding planning memories is the time Mom and I went to our appointment at an expensive bridal boutique for a dress fitting. After finding approximately zero dresses I was excited about, I let the ex-Soviet (seriously, that is not a joke but a statement of fact) boutique worker drag out a few ridiculously overpriced, hideous frocks. She pinned the first one on me then left so Mom and I could discuss it. After about two seconds (Me: "I hate it." Mom: "Me too.") I was ready to try on another frumpy lace debacle just to appease Ms. From Russia With Love. But the painted, severe woman didn't return for nearly 20 minutes. When the same thing happened with the second dress, I had Mom shimmy it off me as soon as Svetlana adiosed the scene for another lengthy smoke break.

We lingered in the general area of my dressing room pretending to be interested in frightening amounts of tulle and fur cobbled together into "designer gowns." After what seemed like three hours, and still no sign of our sad-sack hostess, I suggested to Mom that we make a break for it. She agreed.

We slowly moseyed toward the door, trying to be casual, as though it was the bounty of frills and hand-beading drawing us along to front-of-the-shop racks, and not revulsion. But as soon as I got a whiff of fresh air, I was out the door sprinting toward the car with nary a backward glance, heart pounding in my ears. Mom wasn't nearly as prepared for the footrace as me (apparently I hadn't communicated that once we hit the exit, we had to high-tail it before the KGB caught on) and so was thrown by the cloud of dust next to her in the area formerly occupied by me. I crouched behind the front tire as she caught up, then we burned rubber.

The moral of this story is this: Never be afraid to pack your money and run. Literally.