After working a week straight of 18-hour days (and a good portion of the weekend), I decided I needed a little break from the daily grind and my usual jaunt to Starbucks just wouldn't cut it. So I took a little trip to a bridal salon to pick-out my bridesmaid dress for my little sister's wedding. Let's just say that this dress will be lucky number seven for me.
I slunked into the salon already feeling a little defeated and was greeted by a 19-year old bridezilla trying to find dresses for her eight (yes, you read correctly) bridesmaids who range in sizes 2 to 22 for her wedding in three months and a rather exhausted consultant. The consultant looked at me and I looked at her. "I just need long and black," I said. "Rack's there, knock yourself out," she sighed. I began the hunt, but my search for a red carpet rather than "bam. . . bridesmaid" dress was looking dreary. Then I made a decision: if I get to pick my dress and I have to wear it to my baby sister's nuptials, then by God, I'm spending the money and I'm going to look good.
The consultant came back to check on me and I explained my situation to here. "I knew you looked like a pro. I think I have a few things hidden away that may be what you are looking for." Feverishly she took to the overcrowded clothing racks and pulled three dresses that fit my description beautifully, except for their $300 and up price tags. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
I crept into the dressing room and slipped into gown number one. Eh, not bad. Dress number two, not worth what they were asking for it. Dress number three deserved to be observed in the 3-way mirror- that's right next to the brides, and I gave them a run for their money. Two consultants came over to me and began pinning and tucking the dress to make it fit even better. . . and. . . bam. . . booty. . . wham. . . hips . . . shazam. . . waist. . . Done.
I went back into the dressing room, took one last, long look at the price tag. After a five-second stent of soul searching, I choked down a deep breath and handed the gown to the consultant. She whipped out a tape measure and starting maneuvering around my body. "36-24-36." "What?" I said, a bit perplexed, but very excited. "Yes, you're the perfect size 4. Is that an okay size to order you?" "I'm still stuck on the measurements, are you positive you did that right? Bust, waist, hips?" "Yep, own it, sweetheart. And I'm going to cut you a deal."
I walked out of there in 30 minutes flat, and I was walking on air.