Ok, so I’ve been telling this story to pretty much anyone who will listen.  So I am hesitant to hash it all out in a blog.  Because I’m lazy.  And I’m clearly on a sentence fragment kick.  As you all can see. 

I’m obnoxious. 

Anyhoo, to make a long story short (and to go back to my post about cliche phrases, which I hate, but tend to use all the friggin’ time, damnit), I got a call from the bridal salon that my dress was in on Wednesday.


Wish I felt that “yippee-ness” by the end of that experience, but sadly I didn’t have such a good appointment.

I originally had made an appointment for my bridesmaid that Wednesday and it was pure coincidence that my dress had arrived that morning.  So I figured I’d set up an appointment for the next night because Wednesday was intended to be all about my friend and finding her dress.  By the time I got there, though, Allie had convinced me that I had to “try the dress on, how can you resist, woman?!”

So I did. 

Let me back up a little, though and mention that the store was a little busy.  And we were assigned to a new sales clerk who had been there about 2 weeks.  I’ll put it nicely…she didn’t have a clue what she was doing.  In fact, Allie had to help me into my dress.  That’s not right at a bridal salon. 

So Allie is all up in my business, reaching for fabric, trying to tug down and get my little arm wrapped around and in, and holy moly was it a hilarious sight.  And then came the zipping.  When she zipped me in I instantly knew something wasn’t right.  Mainly because the breath I just took couldn’t be let out.  Literally.  How the hell did women in the 1900s wear corsets?  We humans are not meant to “shallow breathe.”

At first I was a little taken aback, but didn’t think much of it.  But as the night went on and the sales clerk couldn’t  help answer any of my questions and the lady who could was busy with other brides, I started to get pissed.  Clearly the clerk had ordered a size too small for me.  In fact, when I remember back, she was close to ordering me the size bigger, but at the last minute decided she’d order the size that would fit my hips exactly.  Obviously the 20 seconds she spent measuring me was  not enough because when I saw her measurement sheet, I couldn’t believe she had my waist so small.  I’m tiny, but come on people!  Can’t a girl have some room for a little winter weight?!

I ended up paying the difference for the dress (which I’m kicking myself for now) and allowing myself to be shooed out of the store with affirmations that everything will be fine and it’s an easy fix for a seamstress to let out. 


I just feel so crummy about the whole thing.  I knew all along I’d have to have alterations.  I’m funny shaped.  5’2.  No boobs (what the hell, Rodgers genes?).  Hips (oh, there you are Rodgers genes!).  I have a freakishly long torso, and the shortest legs in Southeastern Wisconsin.  But I didn’t think I’d feel so completely crappy putting a dress I originally fell in love with on for the second time. 

And I still feel that way.  The store clerk told me I shouldn’t get alterations done until November, but I can’t see myself going 5 months with this feeling about my dress overshadowing the excitement of the big day.  I need to know that it can be fixed and that I’m going to feel gorgeous in this dress.  And that I can eat.  And dance.  And maybe even breathe, too (I know it’s a lot to ask).  The whole thing just feels fussy and makes me feel down.

Not to mention it gives me a little bit of a complex.  I KNOW the dress was ordered too small.  But, well…it was a long winter.  And I have a comfy couch.  And maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that extra hotdog that one day.  Gah!

I think I’ll be making another appointment with the bridal salon.  And I think I’m going to speak up about demanding better service and demanding they ease my mind that this really is fixable and I’m not going to have to be shoved into a wedding dress come December.  Shoved in like a little sausage.  Or hotdog.  Mmmm…hotdogs.