I am back from holidays, and gently easing back into my writing routines. I hope you are enjoying a beautiful summer day–where ever this finds you….
Bride Elect (Evolution of a Bridezilla)
Chapter Twenty-Nine—No Prints Please
Among all the shoulding, surprisingly we were not offered a whole lot of advice regarding wedding party attire. Both Palucid and I were pretty laid back as far as attire went. Palucid’s only suggestion regarding my dress was that I would likely regret having a big fru-fru gown that was cost equivalent to a compact car. As far as Palucid went, my only proviso for him was that he not feel obliged to wear a tuxedo or even suit.
As far as our wedding party goes, I just wanted people to be comfortable, and I wanted anybody who would be photographed to be wearing solid colours. I think prints are amazing, and some people can really make them “pop”; however, printed fabric really seems to be an attention whore of the photo-bomb variety. I tried to explain this to my suddenly printed-fabric-obsessed family. I wanted to look at our wedding photos in the years to come and see the beautiful faces of our family—not the garishly printed shirt, dress, or blazer they were wearing.
Despite some gentle teasing from my brother, and my sister’s boyfriend, most people didn’t seem too taken aback by my request. My brother went a bought a brightly coloured shirt—I think it made him feel like a bad-ass rule bender. Personally, I always felt he looked his best in bright colours and I was quite proud of him for being so adventurous. Not to be outdone, my sister had a dress of similar hue which she had bought the previous year for her step-daughter’s wedding. I assured her that, not unlike our mom, she would barely have to break a sweat to look beautiful, and any solid coloured outfit would be fine.
Some of the Shouldheads whispered and muttered that, perhaps, it would be prudent to suggest a minimum hemline to some of the younger female family attending this event. Remembering what is was like to be that age (and at times still feeling every bit that age still), I graciously behaved as if that suggestion fell upon deaf ears. I told myself that even if that was a lapse in judgement on my behalf, most wedding portraits are bust and face anyway and any scandalous hemlines would likely fade from memory over time.
My mom seemed the most chagrined. She was being told (by the shouldheads) she “should” wear a dress, and that she “should” buy something new, and where ever she went shopping there were no dresses of solid colour to be found. I assured her that her that the most important thing was her comfort, and if that meant a skirt, or even slacks, and a top, then that would be perfect. My mom is one of those women who have such a strong natural beauty that it takes very simple and little tweaks to “dress” her up. No one can make a simple white linen top, and straight skirt quite as crisp, and elegant as she can. If that was what she chose to wear as “Mother of the Bride”, I trusted that she would be leading the pack in elegant and appropriate attire.
My dad wasn’t chagrined by my “no prints” bridezilla dictum because in his reality a pinstriped woollen suit did not could as “printed fabric”. It was true that his suit, from 1986, was not a wild and gaudy print, but I was kind of hoping that he might feel inspired to get something new for our wedding. He argued that his suit was of a timeless fashion, and like new. He had worn it less than a dozen times over the last twenty seven years, and it still had lots of wear left. Wool is very hardy that way, after all, the sweater vest he wore to our Games Night was circa 1956 and it looked fresh as a fuzzy daisy.
I decided to counter my dad’s argument with some pragmatism of my own. I reminded him of just how very insulating wool can be. I suggested that perhaps wearing three layers of wool outdoors, mid-July, and under the mid-day sun might prove damaging to both the suit and the wearer of said suit. I reviewed with him the very real dangers of heat exhaustion. I suggested we keep the suit in the chute as a “plan b”, but perhaps we could shop around for something cooler. For my big finale, I enlisted my mom for point of comparison and powerful analogy. I was using his own tactics against him when I said, “Mom wants you to—do it for her—do it for Mother”. I felt quite clever using my “kryptonite” against him. It felt a bit like karmic justice for all the times he had played the “Do it for Mother” card on me.
My dad agreed, but more in the spirit of contractual obligation than anything. Palucid and I had to sweeten the pot: we offered to take him out with us on a shopping date. He agreed, provided “Mother comes with us”. Palucid and I grinned—now that was the kind of “in for a penny, in for a pound” kind of attitude we had come to expect from him!