2: to wed or not to wed

I have never found the concept of eloping to be so romantic before becoming engaged. Suddenly I can now understand and even see the logic in abandoning friends and loved ones, hopping a plane and taking off for Vegas to be married by a man in a powder blue, ruffled tux with Elvis and a fat prostitute as my witnesses. Nothing says lovin' like a good impulse wedding.

So far in my fiancee-ial career, I have been asked if I'm "sure" five times, have been asked why I would ever get married once, have had four dress fittings (one of which has ended in hysterical tears), have created two wedding websites, have had one awkward "parents of groom meet parents of bride" dinner, have spent over $250 on various "Bride" paraphernalia, have amassed a collection of 12 bridal magazines, 7 bridal books, 2 wedding planners, have been asked where I am having the reception seventeen and a half times and have called off the wedding twice.

I have been engaged for 37 days.

Saturday was the latest episode in my new Reality Series called Bride-to-Beast; the True Life Story of Rhian Goes Insane.

Saturday morning started off normally enough. I had an appointment at a fancy-schmancy boutique on the Main Line for 2:00 and was scheduled to meet my parents at their house beforehand.

I arrived at my parents house, laundry in tow and began to share with them saga of our dying car. Ryans car is unfortunately in a coma as of now and it will cost an $850 sacrifice to the AutoGods in order to revive it.

Upon imparting this tale, I happened to mention that I looked it up and, because of cost, I doubted that we would be able to have our reception in the locations that we wanted. I was in a snarky mood, I'll admit it. I may have mentioned offhandedly that we just weren’t going to be able to afford the wedding at all anymore. I also might have mentioned that I would not enjoy holding our reception in some random, inexpensive catering hall in Northeast Philadelphia (ok fine, it’s possible that I could have phrased it a little less friendly. The wording might have been closer to "I would rather slit my wrists and die than have my wedding at Joe-Schmo's Catering Hall with mirrored ceilings and DIY floor paneling." Not my finest moment, I'll admit).

So needless to say, this digressed into an argument during which I was told that I was arrogant and close-minded; accusations which in retrospect seem somewhat more fair than they did at the time. When they were being made, however, they were the biggest lies since the moon being made of cheese, Santa Clause and that my choice of college major didn't matter.

Because of this argument, I promptly cancelled our appointment at the boutique and then sat awkwardly in my parents house giving them the silent treatment while I waited for their washing machine to cleanse my clothes. Humbling, I assure you. Eventually however, I called the boutique back and was able to resecure the appointment after we decided to gloss things over and "not speak of unpleasant things anymore today".

We arrived at the salon a little over an hour later. I brought my list of designers that I like and my bag of shaky, raw emotions. Not only that but I am currently being visited by my Female Fairy to put it nicely and I felt like a blimp.

The attendant, a small woman named Sue was not very helpful. We were at this salon specifically because they carry dresses from Manuel Moto and the pronovias collection which are my favorites. We were sitting on the couch in the waiting room next to a pitcher of complimentary Mimosas and a tray of cakes when she asked me what our budget was. I glanced to my left at the Vera Wang Room and gave a wavering look towards my mother.

"We haven't determined that just yet." My mother informed Sue in her calm and matter-of-fact tone. If there had been an interpreter present, they would've translated that as: "Show us the damn dresses that my daughter wants to see...bitch."

Within a few minutes we had gathered some samples and I found myself in a dressing room with Sue.

For those of you who have never experienced a stint at a Bridal Salon as the Bride, I will try to share the awkwardness with you briefly. You are there, wearing virtually nothing but a used bra that they give so you can try on dresses (unless of course you bring your own but I don't own a strapless white bra just yet) and you are wearing your panties. Leg fat on display, you are then helped into a dress and are told to "dive in" (which by the way, I am so sick of hearing, they all say this as if it is a clever and unique catch phrase but it's NOT! They literally all say it). So you put your palms into the prayer position and raise them above your head as the attendant hoists a 10lb white lace frock over your head and fastens it to your body.


"Suck it in" you are occasionally told by one of these small and always unmarried women as she struggles with the zipper/corset/buttons in the back.

Most salons keep size 12 dresses on the racks. For those of you not in the know, a Bridal size 12 is the Christian God's way of punishing us nonbelievers. The secret truth is that bridal gowns are actually created, designed and manufactured by cranky spinster women who have weight and acne problems and never want anyone else to be happy. That's why you struggle for months to lose weight so you look beautiful in your gown and yet then you are forced to purchase a gown that is bigger than the size you originally wore when you were fat. Let me explain: a bridal 12 is a regular person 8. A bridal 10 is therefore a regular person 6. When I go to the store, even after a good week on Weight Watchers and after I've spent most of my waking hours in the bathroom peeing out all of the one-gallon-of-water-per-day that my book Bridal Bootcamp says I must consume to look beautiful, I still get to the fitting room where a woman like Sue gets to say "if only we had a bigger size" in reference to a size 12 dress when back before all of this torture I was a happy size 8.

But I digress.

So most bridal boutiques carry size 12 dresses on the racks. That's because this is neutral territory. It's normal ground. It's as close as anyone can get to one-size-fits-all. Well not here and not today because apparently fancy-schmancy women who shop at this fancy-schmancy boutique and who can afford Vera Wang are also very slim. Figures (get it?). All they kept on the rack at this boutique on the Main Line were size 10s.

Remember the conversion rate here though please. A size 10 bridal is a Regular girls starve-yourself-for-three-months-so-your-body-gets-past-that-phase-where-it-stores-everything-as-fat-and-then-begins-to-eat-itself. AND I had my period. And I am home to the most dangerous curves any body has seen this side of Jessica Rabbit.

Moral of this tangent: these dresses weren't fitting.

Sure, I could get them on, but could I shimmy down the underskirt? Nope. Sure, they could technically cover my body but could Sue get them done up? Not happening.

Another interesting tidbit of the Bridal Experience is that these women use office supplies to get you into these dresses. You know those black and metal things that look like triangles with snappy ends? They're of the paperclip family but they are certainly not paper clips? They're like black metal triangles with two silver metal arms i guess they must be called that snap together? They hold papers and reports together? Well anyway, these women in the Bridal Boutiques rely on those things, they depend on them as if they are the anchor to a ship or something else equally important but perhaps more clever.

Once you have a dress on your body, the attendant dives underneath your skirt and starts yanking on the underskirt to pull it down. This is especially necessary for me in the tighter dresses that I was trying on (sheath dresses are a bitch). She then stands up, goes behind you and figures out all places that the dress needs "clipping". Sometimes it needs to be pulled in tighter around your waist (like for every dress i try on), other times, she needs to clip them to the bra because the dress just simply won't do up so she has to make it appear as it would if it were able to close. Basically, in order to become a Bridal Salon Attendant they send you to Magician School and teach you how to do illusions with office supplies.

Except Sue, my four-eyed attendant missed that day in Snobby Salon 101. Sue didn't clip anything. She didn't clip, she didn't clamp, she didn't pull or straighten or even fluff. She just handed me a dress and told me to put it on. And when I had trouble, she didn't help me out.

All of this culminated at one singular point. I was standing in front of a mirror on a raised, carpeted stage, looking at myself in a dress that was too tight around my hips. too big around my waist and unable to do-up around my breasts and I had a horror-vision of myself showing up like this on my wedding day. Tears burst forth and I wailed in horror "oh my god I am going to be a fat bride!"

Sue and my mother stood agast. They had both just been making polite bridal chatter about how beautiful I was and how stunning the lace looked and how lovely it would all be in candle light.

I had had enough. I tore off my display-version-veil and ran crying into the fitting room where I struggled to get out of the dress and had to ask for help from a wide-eyed Sue who said in earnest "Honey, do you want a drink? We have mimosa's, let me get you one." I refused but thanked her. Out in the hallway I heard her say "She must have her period." and I hated her even more for that comment (and for being right).

And that, my dear reader, is why I called off the wedding the first time.

love and underskirts are the devil,

Rhian