There are many approaches to wedding planning. Some attack it like it’s a second job and spend hours upon hours poring over Bride’s and getting dreamy about dresses while others just simply order a nice bridesmaid’s dress in ivory from threaddesign.com.
My own dress fantasies got a knock the other day when I walked into a local clothing shop and asked about a black dress and whether it could be ordered custom-made in white. The owner, who caters to high-end patrons, whom I thought must think of Cowboy and me as loyal supporters since we buy my Dad’s birthday present from him every year, said, “You’re too old to wear white.”
I heard another woman in the dressing room snort and I felt my face flush and I started to sweat and Hopper was sitting outside the door with his paw on the glass and all I wanted to do was run to him and get the hell out of there and I said, “What? But I’m only 32.” And then I stammered, “and I’ve never been married.” And he replied that “really classy women don’t care about white.” So, I was too old and un-classy? Then, typically, I kept looking at his clothes, which I was thinking about getting Cowboy for Christmas even though my eyes were burning and my mind was spinning with all manner of retorts, which I wanted to make but was too late to blurt out. I was so nervous I even almost bought something for Cowboy but Hopper was knocking at the door, and in the end he saved me from patronizing someone who had just insulted me.
Later that day while I sought refuge at Chantal where I could safely throw my coat on the floor, bring Hopper in to sniff all the jeans, and recount my shock, I bumped into the woman from the dressing room, and she said, “I can’t believe he said that!” After communing with all the women in the store, huddled around the register hen-style to cluck over my story, I bought Cowboy a beautiful sweater from Chantal herself, whose manner is sweet enough to make any of us feel safe as we pile designer labels onto our plastic cards.
I know the whole virgin-white theory of wedding dresses but I thought these days that you just shouldn’t wear white if you’d already been married? And . . . too old? When I got home I ran to the mirror to slather on eye cream and pluck any errant eyebrow hairs and smile at my crow’s feet. Two years ago I was getting carded for cigarettes. My God, I thought, I’ve aged that much?
Cowboy was bemused by the drama — or rather my reaction to it. At least until he faced the firing squad of my questions.
Me: Do I look older than 32?
C: I don’t think so.
Me: Meaning you’re not sure?
C: You look great baby.
Me: That wasn’t the question.
C: You know this feels like another version of the “do I look fat?” question.
Me: This is very important. I think I need to wear black at our wedding. Like an Italian at a funeral.
C: You’ll look great in black.
Me: What is wrong with you?
C: What did I do??
