YES TO THE STRESS?
Buying a wedding dress is not all magic and mimosas.
It could have been a dream. In a haze of mimosas, joy and lingering shock, I lay wrapped in the thick duvet of the hotel bed with my iPhone to my ear. Excitedly, I told my best friend how Colin, my boyfriend of six years, had managed the ultimate surprise the night before: an indulgent French-bistro dinner, decoy plans, a boutique hotel, one knee, the most perfect ring. As I recounted the details, I watched the morning sun dance across the wallpaper’s botanical print fitting of a Rodarte gown, when suddenly, from the other end of the line, a comment plucked me from my euphoria. My friend exclaimed, “I can’t wait to come to Toronto to go dress shopping with you!”
The idea of dress shopping hadn’t dawned on me. Growing up, I didn’t have a bridal treasure trunk or scrap book plotting my vision for every detail. Colin and I had occasionally discussed the ideal honeymoon (Italy’s Amalfi coast) and that we’d love to get married somewhere in wine country. But the ideal wedding dress had never really crossed my mind — and now it seemed daunting.
As someone who lives in denim, sports bras and the colour black, it was hard to picture what combination of white lace and tulle would best suit me. (I could, of course, forego tradition, but rocking a pantsuit or being brazen in a bold hue would put me just as far out of my element.) Harder still: negotiating the expectation that a dress will transform you into a princess and elicit waterworks from your posse. I’ve been a bridesmaid six times, and I know these magical moments do happen. I remember when my sister stepped out of a change room last winter and the tears hit me suddenly. But could I ever look such a way that my friends would see me and think I was beautiful? And, even more challenging, could I feel that way myself?
Hesitations aside, I nervously scheduled my first appoint- ment at a small, trendy boutique near my house, because, like all things wedding, getting a dress is said to be a long process. I didn’t want to make it into a big thing, so I booked it for after work on a Thursday, casually rolling it into plans to hang out with two friends/bridesmaids who lived in town. We’d have dinner, and this would just be a quick errand to do first.
Inside the tiny shop, I flipped through the six highly curated racks, with five clips in hand meant to mark the contenders. I chose three, eliminating anything too clingy, too frilly, too that-will-make-my-hips-lookthis-way-or-that, and relied on my more open-minded friends to help find a couple more.
When I stepped into the first dress, a crisp white sheath with criss-crossing straps in the back, I did my best to smile for the consultant who zipped me in, and keep it going as I moved up on a small platform for my friends to see. Strangely, I found it hard to hold my own gaze in the mirror. It was easier to zero in on any lump or bump causing a shadow in the silk. For another 45 minutes and seven dresses, I did my best to give feedback to the consultant so she could offer other suggestions, pose for photos and act excited despite feeling like an impostor. When my eyes welled up in the change room, I pushed it all back, knowing that giving in to the doubt I was suppressing would only turn this into a bigger obstacle in my mind. Plus, I didn’t want to bum out the spectators.
Later, over pizza and wine, my friend Jill, either tapping into her compassionate intuition or the deep knowledge that comes with having seen every episode of Say Yes to the Dress thrice, sensed it was time for a pep talk. She told me I looked beautiful in all of them, that I was lucky to have so many options, that it wasn’t about finding a dress that would look good, but just about picking any one of the many. I wanted to believe her.
When my older sister was visiting from Ottawa about a month later, I was ready to tackle another bridal boutique, adding her and my younger sister to the support crew. This time, it was a Sunday-morning appointment at Felichia Bridal, a spot where many pals and colleagues had found their dresses. I dragged my sisters to a spin class first, knowing I’d benefit from a hit of endorphins. I then took my time to shower, curl my hair and do my makeup so I could go into the appointment at my most confident. My optimism was stoked when I walked in and saw metres and metres of racks lining the wide shop’s perimeter, loaded with every style, fabric and shade of white I could imagine. Surely one of the hundreds of dresses would look good on me, right? A cheery Irish consultant named Roisin greeted me and walked our group to a sofa in the back corner. We dropped our bags, then got right to work picking dresses. I managed to use all of my five allotted clips.
I rolled through the first three dresses feeling hopeful, with kind reassurance from Roisin as she fastened me into each one. By the time I walked out in the fourth — a multi-layered lace number with an A-line skirt and hint of sparkle, easily the most dramatic of any I had tried thus far — I scored my first collective gasp. It was the kind of dress I probably wouldn’t have grabbed off the rack, but it had caught my eye when we first arrived and another brideto-be was trying it on.
As we admired every delicate lace detail — circling the rim of the chapel-length train, dotting the edge of its low back, subtly peeking through the sheer outer layer — even I couldn’t deny that it looked pretty. A FaceTime call from my mom confirmed this, but there was something that still felt off, like the dress wasn’t really “me.” It was a bit too structured (it actually had a built-in corset) and the lace felt a little scratchy.
Roisin disappeared after a few probing questions, and came back hoisting a Martina Liana dress with a similar neckline and silhouette, minus the corset and gemstones, and woven with a much softer, crochet-inspired lace instead. “I feel like I could lounge around in this!” I exclaimed, touching the cosy fabric around my waist.
The more I wore the dress, the more I liked it. There was no second gasp nor streams of tears, but Jill noticed that my posture seemed more relaxed and confident than it had in any of the previous dresses, and we flipped through pictures she had been snapping to prove it. After I changed out of it, I considered everything — including the fact that the Martina Liana was a sample, meaning I could buy that very one for a heavily marked-down price — and decided that it made sense to swipe my credit card.
I’ve since shown photos of the dress to anyone who asks, and when the oohs and ahhhs sound like clockwork, I fight the part of me that wants to deflect the compliment and instead remember how I felt while wearing it: self-assured, comfortable and, even, beautiful. Was this dress “the one,” a fairy-tale creation destined for me? Possibly, but even if it’s not, that’s OK. I already found the one, and he’s going to be smiling no matter what silhouette I’m wearing as I walk down the aisle.