I may have found a wedding dress.
I’m not superstitious, but I am a little -stitious, so please: any and all readers who are future husbands of mine, I ask you to refrain from clicking through to read the rest of the entry and see the photo.
Am I being foolish? Yes, undeniably. Thank you!
Well, whatever. It’s a little fancier (and a lot whiter!) than I had imagined choosing, but it does meet my few standards for a wedding dress:
– I could wear normal underthings with it.
– The neckline would show off the beautiful engagement pendant The Fella gave me.
– It has a minimum of frou-frou.
– Though it’s not something I’d be likely to wear again, at least I won’t be broken-hearted when I spill sangria on it.
– It would allow me to sit on the ground or spin on the dancefloor or jump in a bouncy castle with reasonable modesty.
As a bonus, it’s less than fifty bucks, which leaves more money for sangria, dancefloor, or bouncy castle.
It all adds up. So why haven’t I ordered it yet? Because it all adds up to “Meh, it’s fine!” and I guess deep down I believe that I should feel something other than “Meh” and “Whatever” about my own actual only honest-to-goodness wedding dress. Which is, let’s face it, kinda dumb.
So far, I’ve been uncharacteristically sanguine about The Dress. I certainly don’t expect to see The Dress and go all misty-eyed, but does it seem sensible to be so… well… sensible about this?