The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):
1). Wear half of a fat suit
2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis
3). Sport black eyes
4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’
5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’
From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.
I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).
Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.
We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.
I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.
Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.
Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.
Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).
Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.
To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.
To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.