Two months after the bridal boutique that made me take my shoes off and wash my hands before they allowed me even to think about dresses, my lovely friend, Maris, visited me in San Francisco. It was time to have another go at this thing. I had an appointment at a bridal shop in Burlingame (45 minutes outside of the city) that had carried a few styles I had liked and seen on the The Kn*t’s giant searchable-dresses website. (A very handy tool for a girl who has no effing clue what she’s looking for, I’ll give them that much.) When we arrived we were the only people in the store except for a lovely older Russian woman who could have been a fabulous aunt-friend-of-the-family type. She was fantastic. Her name is Georgette. And I had no issues, whatsoever, whipping off all my clothes in front of her because all she really did was praise my ta-tas and tell me every dress I had on was made for me. We all need these people in our lives. The ones who go, “Oh my god, whatever. When I was your age I was begging for an a*s like that. Put this on, you’re going to look amazing.”
So, I picked a dress. I bought the dress. I called my mom and told her I had bought a dress. I felt good about the experience. I felt relieved that the entire thing was over, Maris high-fived me and then we made our way over to the donut shop and I had the biggest apple fritter of my life. Done and done, right? Except not.
Continue the rest of this over at A Practical Wedding….