Okay I have a confession to make. I kinda sort of maybe started looking at pictures of wedding dresses before I had a ring on my finger.
Maybe this doesn’t sound like a big deal to some girls out there, but it was something I never would have dreamed of doing before dating J. Wedding dresses were overpriced, overrated, overindulgent garments that epitomized the princess-for-a-day wedding nonsense women are spoon-fed from the time they are born. This was a world I knew nothing about, nor cared to know anything about. I didn’t know designers or styles. Tulle, chiffon and Duchesse lace sounded more like the names of horses running in the Kentucky Derby than materials an expensive dress would be made out of. And the gowns I’d see in movies made women look like meringues wrapped in marshmallows, sprinkled with swarovski crystals. It all seemed so impossibly girly.
But oh how quickly the mighty fall. What I mean to say is, I am addicted to wedding dresses…the poofier, the better.
The addiction started innocently enough a few months before we got engaged. One night, after watching a few episodes of TLC’s “Say Yes To The Dress,” I clicked through the images on Kleinfeld’s website. The next night I decided to search out some bridal stores here in Los Angeles, you know, just in case, and look through their gown collections. A few nights later I started hunting down individual designers to peruse their styles. Minutes turned into hours. Days turned into weeks. I even neglected to check my Facebook account. I’d have to clear my search history every night just in case J decided to use my computer. I was a bride-aholic hiding the evidence.
Now that I am wearing the ring, however, I feel as though it is safe to come out of the closet with my addiction. I know every designer, from Amsale to Wang. I spend hours surfing the web looking through various collections. I mark bride magazines with little purple sticky notes labeled with the names of the closest store carrying the design. I understand the difference between trumpet and mermaid cuts, A-line and ball gowns, sheaths and ballerinas. I know necklines: sweetheart, crumb catcher, keyhole and scoop. Hell, I even know what ruching means.
And I want to try each. one. on.
I thought I was better than this. I thought I was a stronger woman. But alas, I, too, am helpless against the power of excessive ruffles.
By Proud father
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