Saturday is Bridal Day.
It is supposed to be My
First Full Day Off Without Children since the week before Christmas. However, I am invited out to lunch with my
eldest son, future daughter-in-law, and her family, after which we will look
for wedding invitations. I find this
prospect exciting because, as crazy as this may sound, I am a paper
addict. Yup - I could never work in a
stationery store; it's almost as dangerous as when I worked at the
bookstore. As we peruse through the
magnificent selection, I am little help in narrowing anything down because I am
shell-shocked from all the exquisite paper stock, the glossy finishes, the
lined envelopes, the embossed lettering, and the multitudes of manuscript
styles.
Apparently I am stricken with Oh-Shiny Syndrome.
Before the appointment, though, while we are walking along
the sidewalk in front of the stationery store, I run into a co-worker and her
daughter on their way to the bridal salon next door in search of a
mother-of-the-bride dress. We laugh (okay,
I scream) with delight when we see each other, and we madly make introductions
all around, as if either of us will remember whose-who in mere
milliseconds. I envy her just a bit for
finally being decisive about shopping, something we've both bantered about for
a while. I have been window-shopping and
Internet-eyeballing dresses. I need two:
One for son's black-tie wedding in September, and another for daughter's
country club wedding in October. The
thought of actually trying on and buying these dresses is both seamless and
daunting as neither bride has restricted me to colors or styles. I like them all!
Someone needs to help me make decisions, because, alas, I
have been struck again with Oh-Shiny
Syndrome.
But before any of this happens, Bridal Day starts with an
early appointment at the salon where my daughter purchased her gown. There is a trunk sale, and she is hoping to
at least score a veil. I am hoping she
scores a veil, too, because it will be 15% off.
We have a good idea of both length and style, and it's more a matter of
finding one to match the dress than anything else.
We are an easy appointment, and I have my daughter to thank
for that. Throughout this whole process,
she has been the one to avoid the grippe of Oh-Shiny
Syndrome. That's not to say she
doesn't love the bling, because my girl looooooves
the bling. And she's had a wonderful
sense of adventure as I have forced her into every imaginable style of dress at
every bridal store between here and Kalamazoo, mostly to her calming chant of,
"Mom, no. Seriously,
noooo."
My girl has wisely enlisted the help of her friend, and the
veil possibilities change out rapidly. I
am fascinated watching the process. I
feel the same sense of positive anxiety here that I will feel later at the
stationery store but for a different reason.
At the stationery store, I am overwhelmed by my own paper-lust. At the bridal salon, I am overwhelmed by the
bling. Every veil looks good; the added
headband looks fantastic; the drop earrings are gorgeous; the jewelry trunk
show is within arm's distance …
CRYSTAL, CRYSTAL, EVERYWHERE, I FEEL MY WALLET SHRINK;
CRYSTAL, CRYSTAL, EVERYWHERE, OH HOW I NEED A DRINK!
Then I breathe, because daughter and her friend have everything under control. They will not let me be distracted by the
extras. Focus. Veil. Breathe.
Minutes are all it takes to choose the final option. We're in the clear, until I look down and see
a giant pin at the edge of my daughter's gown.
A damn pin, shiny and silvery, threatening to cause some kind of damage
to an otherwise perfect moment. I lean
over to pick up the sharp metal sliver, and… and … it slips out of my hand and
into the skirt of my daughter's bridal gown.
Shit. Damn.
Frig.
The friend sees my look of panic and knows instantly what I
have done. I know what she must be
thinking. If only I didn't have Oh-Shiny Syndrome, maybe I would have
the presence of mind to move AWAY from the gown after grabbing a potential weapon
of dress destruction. My daughter's
friend comes to my rescue and grabs the pin, carefully extracting it from the
material without causing any damage. I
doubt very much that she's thinking, "My god, Heliand is a dumbass,"
but if she were, I would rightfully deserve it.
She saves the moment, saves the appointment, helps to pick the veil, and
helps preserve about five years my heart almost takes off of my life.
We place her order at the register, pay, and get the hell
out of there before I break, tear, or damage something else. When we get to the car and start talking
about the pin near-disaster, daughter reveals that the pin we found had also
found its way into her foot at some point during the appointment. We unlock doors, laughing about morbid
things, like tetanus and blood poisoning and the transference of needle-borne
viruses.
As we maneuver into our seats, there is a distinctive, loud
tearing noise.
My mind reels back to the dress, the pin, and the
almost-horror I caused by trying to get a piece of metal off the rug of the
salon. Suddenly my daughter screams with
laughter (we do a lot of joyous screaming in our family) and bends over to show
us her pants … which have ripped … right across the rear where her thigh meets
her hip, exposing a slash of skin to the icy elements of New England
winter. And I'm not sure if it's the
stress-release or simply because of the moment in general, but all three of us
explode into hysterics.
Do we think to take pictures of the veil with the
dress? Of course not. We think instead to take pictures of my
daughter's ass-cheek sunning itself in the January air along route 114 for all
traffic, northbound and southbound, to enjoy.
And in that fleeting moment, as my brain is struggling to re-oxygenate
after hyperventilating from laughter, I am suddenly enlightened to the reality:
It's Bridal Day;
Veils, invitations, dress shopping, and errant ass cheeks are all worthy of the
moment, and the whole experience is Oh-Shiny.
