Toothpaste

One of my best friends has done me the honor of asking me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. It's a big deal, as weddings tend to be. True love and all that. With the honor comes the dress - the bridesmaid dress. Cue the horror film music.

All girls have stories of the bridesmaid dress. Ruffled. Beribboned. Themed. Ruffled again. Bows tacked in strategically unattractive places. So bad fourth rate drag queens wouldn't wear them around the house on the off chance they might trip on the hem, choke on a ruffle, die, and be found in it.

These dresses aren't terrible. Each bridemaid has a different style of dress all in the same color: serene. They are quite fitting actually. The slutty girl is wearing the slutty dress, the sweet one is wearing the sweet and innocent dress, and so on. My dress thankfully has no frills, no ruffles, no bows. I'm not into strategic draping or cleavage enhancing mermaid shapes or rhinestones. Interpret that how you will.

I went to pick up the dress today. The store's policy is if you take the dress out the door, you can't bring it back. I think it's to ward off hysterical women who gained ten pounds from stress eating because their friend is getting married and they are sure this means they will die alone with four cats. I tried the dress on per my orders from the bride. The sample size had fit beautifully - no tailoring required. The actual dress did not.

The waist fit wonderfully. The cleavage area was a little snug. Pretty snug. Very snug. If I were a tube of toothpaste, someone had just stepped on me so I squeezed out the top. I was a beer with too much head. I was a summer sausage popping out of the casing. It was not pretty. I stepped out of the dressing room with my hands crossed to cover the parts that should have been under fabric. The alterations lady looked me up and down like a prize hog.

"You are too big."

"Excuse me? I think the dress is too small. I am the perfect size, thank you very much."

"No, too big." She whipped out a tape measure. " See your waist is a two. Your bust is an eight. You are too big. I cannot help you." She stalked off.

I was annoyed. My inappropriately garbed self cornered a salesgirl. We discussed. Turns out my dress can't be ordered in a larger size in time for the wedding IN SEPTEMBER. If I had gone for the slutty version or the princess version, not a problem. But since I picked the simple, no frills, no ruffles, no tiara required version it had to be special ordered. Who knew it was so popular to be a candy color swathed lady-of-the-night?

I also learned there is a two inch difference allowance in sizes for mass produced clothing. Two inches. If I were sewing up someone's face, and I was off by two inches, they would be pissed. Roofer off by two inches - you complain about the water dripping onto your bed. Tiger Woods off by two inches - he's playing like he is now. I can think of a lot of examples where two inches makes one helluva difference.

There are times when you have to take one for the team...or for the bride. I'm ordering one of the other dresses that they can get faster. Ruffles. Bows. Rhinestones.

Sigh.