Why There Are No Pictures

I really was prepared to have a photographic feast for you today. A welcome back from your holiday have a good laugh at me photographic feast. For, you see, on Tuesday last, my mother and I embarked on a ripe-for-comedy expedition to the Saks Fifth Avenue bridal salon.

And boy, did I have my arrows sharpened. First off, you need an appointment. You cannot just walk in and try on dresses as we had learned the week before (instead we tried on awesome cocktail dresses on the designer floor). You must meet with your bridal consultant to discuss your vision.

Example:

Bridal consultant: So what is your vision for your wedding?
Me: I definitely think my rear end should be fully covered by the dress.

I debated long and hard whether or not to simply lie to the woman and tell her that we were a) getting married at the Plaza and inviting 500 people; b) getting married at Neuschwanstein (I swear, if I actually just spelled that correctly without checking google - scout's honor - I deserve a Vera Wang gown); c) participating in a group wedding a la the moonies; or d) having a long and very religious ceremony for which my head, shoulders, ankles, cheekbones, etc. would need covering.

In the end, because I just don't like to waste my lying, I told the truth. When she asked me what shoes I might wear, I admitted that I didn't know if I would be wearing shoes, but pointed out that the shoes I had worn to the dress-up were the lowest heels I would be considering. When she asked me what my style was, I told the truth. I tried on exactly zero head-to-toe lace numbers. I said I liked simple, clean, and elegant. That I was unmoved by beads, lace, and tulle. That I wanted something cool.

So, now I have to interject and admit why there are no pictures, even though my camera was tucked into my handbag.

Somewhere in between the jokes and the self-consiousness, I kinda got into it. I found myself trying on dresses in styles I might actually wear. I found myself imagining myself wearing such dresses. And swilling champagne. And carrying my bouquet of wildflowers picked earlier in the day by my goddaughter. For literally the first time, I imagined myself a bride, and not just someone who was signing some papers and returning, pretty much, to the same life she'd been leading for the preceding decade.

Now you just know how I love being aloof. Sarcastic. Above the fray. It's my calling card. It allows me to be vulnerable and admit that I cry at the Folger's commercial they play around Christmas time where the armed forces son surprise returns for Christmas and wakes his parents up with a fresh pot of coffee. Now I will say that I was not nearly as emotionally moved by trying on wedding dresses as I am by that commercial, but I certainly wasn't as emotionally neutral as I had anticipated.

So I didn't want to have pictures posted here of things that might resemble what I might actually wear. The tryings-on suddenly had more importance than anticipated.

In fairness, armed with my newfound bridal enthusiasm, I made the mistake of dropping 10 bucks on a bridal magazine (trying to find the one whose cover offended me least). I won't be doing that again until Amy and Abby and I get together to page through many of them while bombed because literally nothing in the 400 page tome applied to me at all. I don't need to know what juicer to register for, nor am I concerned that my bridesmaids will suddenly turn into crazed harpies (especially since there is no wedding party to speak of), nor do I really think I need a crown. So, the majority of my distaste for the wedding industry remains intact.

But I don't have pictures. Because I realized I didn't want to spoil the surprise.

How's that for breaking news?