The Fitting

by gretchen


When you are shopping for a wedding gown, you get a little room, with an actual door and you have a nice woman helping you zip and hook and fluff. You walk out in gown after gown of princess dreams and look at your mother, sitting on a couch in front of you. You look at her with hope, thinking she'll be moved to tears seeing her youngest daughter, the one who swore she would never marry, in a wedding dress. You know this happens. You've seen it on TV. But there are no tears. There is the, "only your mother will tell you" feedback.


Which, really, is why you brought her. Big decision here. Can't be left to the somewhat questionable judgment of a still-not-sure-about-the-whole-wedding-thing woman.

The dress you love, the one you have coveted is immediately deemed too old. The saleswoman agrees: "It's for someone very mature, like 40." I stare at her. I look at my mom. "I'm 35. Pretty close."

More puffy dresses. More sparkles and tiaras and netting. Over and over, you think, "This is great, but I'm 35. I mean, seriously." Your mother loves the big foofy white one. Which would be dreamy. If you were 23. The saleswoman brings over more of the same. All dreamy. "I'm 35," you keep mumbling.


You are 35, and so you pick the one you like, the one that's "too old." It's pretty and appropriate.


When you go in for you fitting (alone), the nice little room (WITH THE DOOR) is gone. You are ushered into a small changing room with curtains that don't quite cover the entry way. The seamstress keeps pacing outside. At any moment, she might whip open those curtains and find you in your spanx/sausage casings hooking up your long-line bra which is a total pain in the ass. You step out. You wait for the, "Oh, so pretty."


You don't get it. The seamstress has a job to do: get you into that dress properly. She doesn't really care about much else. She also doesn't speak English, so what does it matter? You stand there, alone (no entourage necessary, again, unlike on TV). You wonder if it's the right dress. Not much you can do about that now... you decide maybe it's the wrong dress. You angst. You stress. You know it's the wrong dress. You decide you are definitely not getting married.


When you come back to pick it up six weeks later (again, alone), you have a new seamstress, and this one has no problem barging in on you. "I am the dressmaker. I see everyone neked," she says with her thick accent. "You tell me ven you need me to help you," she finishes as she sort-of closes the curtains. You try to change as fast as possible so she doesn't come in. In the process, you rip the zipper on your pants which you end up tearing to get them off as quickly as possibly. You can hear her heels clicking around out there. HURRY! you tell yourself. You fling the pants, wondering how you'll deal with the fact that you totally broke the zipper with your big fat butt. She lean over to put your shoes on and notice that very unattractive roll of fat on your belly. You have a very bad feeling about this dress. She barges in and sees you in the scuba suit of Lycra and boning. "Let's put this on," she says and drops the dress over your head. As she starts to shove you into the dress, you realize it's now much tighter.


She ushers you outside, again: all business. There is a cranky old man sitting just down the way and a fat young girl with her frumpy friends trying on bridesmaid dresses. You smell a bridezilla as she commands the tired salesgirl to fetch this and that. You remind yourself that YOU are the anomaly here; most women do think all of this is a very big frickin deal.


The seamstress glares at your boobs. "Vas dis de bra you vore ven you vere fitted?" Oh shit. You tell her is was. She doesn't actually call you a liar but you know she's thinking it as she eyeballs the trashy amount of cleavage exploding out of the top and sides of the strapless dress. You knew strapless was a bad idea... She tells you something you don't understand and suddenly, she's unzipped your dress and is yanking your bra around and moving your boobs. You are being molested in a wedding dress shop. AND NO ONE CARES. She zips you up.


"You see," and no I can't keep doing the accent, "You American girls like to wear your boobs up over your shoulders. You need to have them fall more naturally. Look at me. I am a D," she says proudly as she opens her jacket to reveal what you really doubt are D-cup boobs. She tells you how good her boobs look and then lifts them up higher to show you how ridiculous it would be to have them hoisted. But she's not American. We like the gravity-defying boobs. She shifts you around a bit more and then gives you instructions to not wear your bra too high on your wedding day. She grabs your hand and puts it under her boob: there should be two fingers between the bottom of your breast and the wire in the bra. Do you feel?" You've got my hands on some Russian woman's boob. This isn't really what you thought you would be doing today.


When you get home, your pants unzipped and your sweater pulled as low as it could go to cover that fact, your fiance asks you how your day was. "I got felt up by some Russian woman and then she made me look at her boobs." You walk away, letting him ponder that. From the other room, you add, "And she is totally not a D-cup. I felt them; I know."