Ah. My wedding dress. A small and thrifty seamstress had assured me over Christmas that this would ‘fit perfect, okay?’ After an initial debacle that ended in her somewhat bossily telling me I had a boyish figure and definitely, without a doubt, needed ‘cups.’ Somehow I gave into her crazy mumblings and told her that I trusted her.
Fast forward to the last and only trip home pre-wedding, where I had but one hour to skip in there, get my ‘fit perfect, okay?’ dress, and take it back a day later to Texas for my bridal portraits. I get into the dressing room and zip up my dress easily, too easily. It’s humungous. Everyone in the audience didn’t say much and tried to ooh and ahh and the lacework and the gown itself. I, however, was wildly distracted and kept trying to keep the crew on track with the real objective of the visit. I motioned to an aunt, lifted my hands up high, and watched her face open up in surprise as I showcased not one, but two of my prized possessions. I’m not talking just a little egg white, I mean the yolk and all. I’m not sure if she was more shocked by the dress not fitting or my willingness to do this act in public. What’s worse is that the bra cups that had been forced upon me were sewn about six inches apart. I’m not sure what is normal, but I’m pretty sure the bumps aren’t supposed to be emerging from underneath your armpits.
I didn’t cry, but I did have to demand justice and it wasn’t the prettiest picture. I will let you know that I did get my dress and return to TX with it the very next day, only to turn it inside out and hand-stitch the rest of what I felt was needed late last night. I mean, really, who takes a sewing machine to their wedding dress?!
My dad brought up a good point: Had we not caught this initial error, it would have been a pretty wild night when the ‘YMCA’ came on. Talk about getting more than you bargained for at a party hosted by the Reddicks!