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Monday, Nov 9, 2009
Weddings are an act of faith, and you hope that for a brief period of time, the love and commitment of two people will bring everyone together.
Jul 18, 2003 | These are such rich, ripe times for paranoia and despair that each celebration, each occasion of tribal love and music and overeating glows more brightly against the swampy backdrop of all things Bush. I have never been more paranoid in my life -- some days I'm like comedian Emo Phillips, who thought the man hammering on the roof next door was calling him a paranoid little weirdo, in Morse code. But I see people rising up, resisting, gearing up to fight the great good fight again, for decency, freedom, for the poor, for the earth. And beating back the right wing's fever dream is going to be one of the all time great fights. People are helping each other keep their spirits up; great movies are being made, brilliant columns continue to be written. The press is coming around, great art is being created, edgy comedy, and theater. So along with the paranoia, I feel a lot of hope again. It didn't hurt that I recently got to serve as a flower girl in a friend's wedding.
The friend and her parents are three of my closest friends. I adore the bride-to-be, and so of course I wanted to be the best flower girl, creating a path of breathy joy upon which the bride might walk; the evanescence of rose petals, the sweetness. But there were a couple of flies in the ointment: There were two other flower girls, one 8 years old, and one 3.
At first I could see no reason to have two young girls there to rain on my parade. Then I had a tiny moment of clarity: It was not my parade.
I'd wanted to be an Herbal Essence shampoo vision from the '60s, someone in a flowing dress with a garland in her hair. Someone who looked like she should be accompanied by a unicorn. Instead, side by side with two very young girls, I was going to look like Woody Allen in "Zelig."
There was only one other woman in the bridal party, besides the bride -- her sister, the maid of honor, who was also the mother of the 3-year-old. She had chosen a gauzy dress of heathery rose, flowing but deceptively tailored -- in other words, you had to be lean to wear it. I know this because the bride asked me to try it on in my size at the vintage-style bridal store where the maid of honor had found her dress. I did, and I could barely get it on. Even the next size up hurt, like tight pantyhose. I slunk away.
I called the bride and said the dress was hopeless. She said to try to find something from the same designer. She suggested I make an appointment with the store's manager, who is hip and helpful. I did.
The morning of my appointment, I tried to put it all in perspective. Building a wedding -- the bridal party, the families, the guests, the minister, writing the vows, selecting the food -- is like a sculpture by Andy Goldsworthy. You're trying to make something beautiful out of unruly and unpredictable elements -- the weather, the nuttier relatives, rivalries, disorders, dreams. Out of mostly old neurotic family and friends, you hope to create something of beauty, a whole. You create it as an act of faith, that for a brief period of time, the love and commitment of two people will bring everyone together, and it will sort of work. Even if the weather or personalities are worrisome, these breezes and water will flow through the structure of your wedding, will sanctify and change it, and it will hold.
I went to my appointment with the store manager. She was very nice. Perhaps a little too thin. Still, I thought of her as my caseworker. I told her the large size of the heathery rose dress had been too tight. "Oh," she exclaimed. "This line runs really small! You could try on the extra-large." I am not overweight; I used to be 5-foot-7, before I became a victim of what my son calls the old-age shrinking thing. Now I am 5-foot-6, and weigh around 140. So let's say medium. Or let's remember the bumper sticker with the picture of the cat that says, "I'm not fat -- I'm fluffy." I'm a little fluffy in the stomach now, and in the butt. So with the caseworker continuing to cry out that the line runs small, I tried on the extra-large, and it was hideous.
I felt despondent for caring. I am a feminist, and a progressive -- I'm sure I'm on John Ashcroft's enemies list. Or, at any rate, he's on mine. I prayed for sanity and militant self-love to return -- normally I'm just an ordinary American woman, still vulnerable enough after a lifetime of brainwashing to compare myself miserably to the 14-year-old models in magazines who are made up to look like 20-year-olds. But now I was comparing myself unfavorably to an 8-year-old, and a 3-year-old.
This was not a bridal issue anymore, or even a fashion issue. It was a psychiatric issue.
