I've been invited to be part of a wedding. I'm part of the "court" - not exactly a bridesmaid, not the maid of honor, but instead, one of the people who are honored to be part of this momentous day for the bride and the groom. It's lovely and thoughtful for them to include me.
I went to the bridal boutique this morning, to select a dress in the bride's choice of color and my choice of design (among the available options). The salesgirl, a very young and sanguine woman, asked:
"Are you the mother of the groom?"
I tried my best to maintain my game face, but I'm sure a look of appalled disbelief momentarily crossed. Erm, no.
Well, that was horrifically awkward.
The choices of dress, unfortunately, were all either spaghetti straps or strapless. I am a woman of Ample Cleavage -- neither wee little straps nor no-straps-at-all are remotely acceptable. So we had to look at the online options and select one. They also had wee little straps or none at all. Except one, which is not a bad dress, thank goodness. There was no sample in the store, though, so I'll see how it looks on me exactly two weeks before the wedding, when it arrives. :::breaking into slight sweat:::
I'll likely be the only one with some shoulder coverage. And the color? A lovely pale pink. Blush. It's a beautiful color -- and is one of the least flattering colors on this already-very-pink-girl. And Chiffon. Such an unforgiving fabric.
My suspicion is that all the other women in the entourage will carry this off better than I. I just don't want to stand out. Perhaps in the same color and fabric as everyone else, I can just fade quietly into the background.
I feel like the One Mandatory Frumpy Yet Sassy Bridesmaid in every chick flick. Except I'm not sassy.
Poetry Thursday, Women's History Month
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