And the Bride Dazzled in a Bead-Encrusted Vera Wang Bodice*...

Today I picked up my wedding gown. I had banished it from my weekly to-dos for several months, after having planned/postponed/re-planned/indefinitely postponed the wedding itself. But why default to a pity-me narrative? I admire the zoomable weddings, smaller-but-joyful -- "Love can't wait!"-- but it appears our love can wait. Or the ritual surrounding it, in any case. There is much to be thankful for. As a couple we have managed to grow together, not apart, during the pandemic. Some of our family have contracted Covid, but so far have not succumbed to it. We adopted house-hunting as a restless Sunday-driving pastime in the Spring and stumbled onto a wonderful new home. 

Of course, buying the new meant selling the old. And selling the old meant drastically clearing out. I spent weeks pouring over 16 years of accumulated possessions in the basement of the old house. It was exhausting and I grew to hate it. Musty old lives. Mysterious and banal, how so many treasures are eventually transmuted into trash. I felt compelled to look through old journals. Decades old. Just learning-to-be-an-adult old. Most entries ranged from predictably boring or self-indulgent, to mortifying. But I also found myself stirred up. Awakened, or made richer? It didn't strike me as mere nostalgia. I don't think I have forgotten who I am. But perhaps I forgot certain layers of myself, as they lost relevance to my life; and the degree to which I felt "stirred up," reflected how present those layers are, even if mostly dormant? The earlier me was more driven, more convinced of its own importance, or at least the importance of its viewpoint. The earlier me strode quickly, for hours; loved the sound of her stacked heels clacking against the sidewalk; always double-checked her bag for pen and notebook. She doubted life could be expansive or bountiful, but was ever on the lookout for hopeful signs. By dipping into the journals, it was as if I turned a corner and was almost knocked over by her, caught up as she was, in her own confused rush to be christened by experience and to live quietly, contemplatively. I assumed she was laughable; but came away feeling more fond of her. I imagine her gut reaction to be "How the hell did you get HERE?" And by here she'd mean this sidewalk, here, this balance of restlessness and contentment; here, this meandering prose which began with a wedding gown. 

So, back to the gown. It's still gorgeous and impossible to put on without help. Once the glitchy zipper has been persuaded to work, it's so close and so armored, it could stand independently. It calls to mind one of my favorite picture books, wherein a snazzy suit overshadows the personality of its new wearer, Fenwick, and subsequently goes to the office without him. I don't feel dwarfed as such -- though I can't imagine I'll ever wear more yards of satin, much less a bustle! again -- but if ever a garment of mine were prime for bewitching, this would be it. Say yes to the dress -- but keep an eye on it. This experience jars with the earlier visits; today we follow the directional arrows taped to the carpet, past ghostly bagged dresses on either side, back to a jerry-rigged dressing room. I step onto the dais and the seamstress flouffs the gown out around me, assuring me that bustles are utterly simple to manage. "And when's the new date!" she prompts. Ahhh well, it will be wonderful whenever you have it. If you can believe it, there's one other woman from your wedding time who has yet to pick up her dress! My reflection shows smiling eyes below my quarantine hair, which ranges from Pebbles Flintstone to Jim Ignatowski. In this space, my Biden/Harris mask suffers from a distinct lack of beading. The seamstress tells me to look this way, and that way. I don't know what to do with my hands. I clasp them formally/demurely/awkwardly, she snaps a few photos, and declares it done.

After, I stop off at my nearest favorite bookshop to dispel the anticlimactic feeling. Customers aren't allowed to go inside now, but the owner brings book suggestions to me so I can choose on a bench outside, and how can one be upset with that? I bring the gown to the new home in the front guest room closet, where it shares space with canisters of wrapping paper.  I still like the idea of shortening it to cocktail length, to wear for anniversaries, though that prospect conveniently ignores how bodies change as we age. But earlier me could never have envisioned this dress, this house, my partner or daughter; this current life. So maybe this dress will, itself, step out to trip the light fantastic, some night after it grows cold, and then warm once again; and maybe future me will dress up in it many years from now, take my husband's arm in mine, and we will dance, looking similar, and so very different, than we do today. In the meantime, our 5 1/2 y.o. flower girl has outgrown two flower girl dresses and has soured on the whole business, after learning she may not perform Hamilton songs at pivotal moments in the would-be ceremony.

*Atop Plaid Pajama Pants and Raccoon Slippers, Not Pictured