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saucy_dryadI’ve not forgotten that I’d promised to tell you of the Great Wedding Flash of ‘97. Well, to be fair, I’d sort of forgotten. Truth is, it isn’t all that compelling a tale. Nonetheless, I promised the story and the story you shall have.
Don proposed to me Labor Day weekend of ‘96. We planned on being married in September of ‘97, two weeks after Faire closed. BAD idea when it comes to wedding planning. I’m scattered and disorganized at the best of times. Trying to pull together a wedding when we were involved in meetings and rehearsals and then the entire run of Faire? Not. Good.
But really, my needs were simple: I wanted to celebrate my wedding with those I loved, and at the end of the day I wanted to be married to my sweetie. Full stop. We had the wedding outdoors at a summer camp. We bought the flowers the week before. Bought most of the wine and beer two days before. Decided on a cookout rather than an sit-down meal. The tables were to be outside, under the trees in full view of a beautiful lake. Very, very casual.
Unfortunately, I took that same approach when it came to my dress. A friend-ish acquaintance from faire had a background, so I was told, in costume construction. She offered, as her gift to me, to make my wedding dress. I’m a stumpy-torsoed oddly shaped person; ready made dresses intimidated the living hell out of me. So, I leapt on her offer. She fitted me for a tight bodice, which she assured me would fit so perfectly I need not wear a bra. The bodice would have off-the-shoulder cap sleeves and snug down to a full, foofy silk taffeta skirt. Very nice. In theory.
On the day of the wedding, as two of my dearest friends on this great green earth did my hair and makeup and told me jokes to keep me distracted, the hands of the clock crept ever closer to the time I was to walk down the aisle (well, forest path) with no dressmaker and no dress in sight. At last, about five minutes before the ceremony was to begin, their car pulled up... and she was in the back, still sewing. By this time, I was in a state of complete serenity. If I had to wear shorts and a tank top with my mom’s lace veil, I would do so. I was marrying Don. That was all that mattered. My two dearest friends, k. in particular, were furious on my behalf. I was sewed into my dress (the grommets on the bodice never happened; just needle and thread) and sent off along the aisle (forest path!) to the chapel (rustic wooden platform) by the lake. The ceremony was simple and lovely. We were surrounded by our loved ones, friend and family alike, in the woods on a surpassingly beautiful autumn day. There was laughter and there were tears. There was a fetching ramble along the path back to the reception area. There was food and there was wine and there was music. And there was the first dance.
Since the Crimson Pirates had sung their version of Wild Mountain Thyme at our engagement, it was only fitting that be our first dance as well. So, the group gathered, and Don and I melted into each other’s arms and began moving to the sweet, lilting tune. He spun me out, and - suddenly, time slowed down. “You won’t need to wear a bra!” I heard, as if from a great distance. “Hold still; I don’t want to poke you with this needle.” That one was a bit closer. And oh, so terribly slowly, I could feel the shift of fabric as the supposedly snug bodice, well - unsnugged.
Out popped my left breast.
In front of the entire reception, who were intent on watching the first dance.
Here is something most of you may know, or at least have guessed. I am brutally self-conscious. I am also painfully shy. This was a moment of abject horror. But I also have my moments, and this was one of them. “You have two choices,” I told myself. “Run away crying, or get the hell over it.”
I hiked the bodice back up, grinned and waved at the poor, violated crowd and said, “Hi, everyone!” and finished the dance. This was my wedding, dammit. A celebration. I’d be damned it I let that moment ruin it all.
But, truth be told, it’s still ouchy. And if I had it all to do again and could change only one thing, I’d buy a dress. I wanted to be fairy-princess pretty for one day. When can I ever do that again? But then, it is one day, and now it’s ten years on and I still have most of those loved ones around me and I still have my sweetie, who thinks I’m beautiful and desirable and brilliantly talented and assumes that everyone else sees me exactly as he does.
I call that a win.
Oh, and *tappitytappityTIMESTEP!*
*jazzhands*
Don proposed to me Labor Day weekend of ‘96. We planned on being married in September of ‘97, two weeks after Faire closed. BAD idea when it comes to wedding planning. I’m scattered and disorganized at the best of times. Trying to pull together a wedding when we were involved in meetings and rehearsals and then the entire run of Faire? Not. Good.
But really, my needs were simple: I wanted to celebrate my wedding with those I loved, and at the end of the day I wanted to be married to my sweetie. Full stop. We had the wedding outdoors at a summer camp. We bought the flowers the week before. Bought most of the wine and beer two days before. Decided on a cookout rather than an sit-down meal. The tables were to be outside, under the trees in full view of a beautiful lake. Very, very casual.
Unfortunately, I took that same approach when it came to my dress. A friend-ish acquaintance from faire had a background, so I was told, in costume construction. She offered, as her gift to me, to make my wedding dress. I’m a stumpy-torsoed oddly shaped person; ready made dresses intimidated the living hell out of me. So, I leapt on her offer. She fitted me for a tight bodice, which she assured me would fit so perfectly I need not wear a bra. The bodice would have off-the-shoulder cap sleeves and snug down to a full, foofy silk taffeta skirt. Very nice. In theory.
On the day of the wedding, as two of my dearest friends on this great green earth did my hair and makeup and told me jokes to keep me distracted, the hands of the clock crept ever closer to the time I was to walk down the aisle (well, forest path) with no dressmaker and no dress in sight. At last, about five minutes before the ceremony was to begin, their car pulled up... and she was in the back, still sewing. By this time, I was in a state of complete serenity. If I had to wear shorts and a tank top with my mom’s lace veil, I would do so. I was marrying Don. That was all that mattered. My two dearest friends, k. in particular, were furious on my behalf. I was sewed into my dress (the grommets on the bodice never happened; just needle and thread) and sent off along the aisle (forest path!) to the chapel (rustic wooden platform) by the lake. The ceremony was simple and lovely. We were surrounded by our loved ones, friend and family alike, in the woods on a surpassingly beautiful autumn day. There was laughter and there were tears. There was a fetching ramble along the path back to the reception area. There was food and there was wine and there was music. And there was the first dance.
Since the Crimson Pirates had sung their version of Wild Mountain Thyme at our engagement, it was only fitting that be our first dance as well. So, the group gathered, and Don and I melted into each other’s arms and began moving to the sweet, lilting tune. He spun me out, and - suddenly, time slowed down. “You won’t need to wear a bra!” I heard, as if from a great distance. “Hold still; I don’t want to poke you with this needle.” That one was a bit closer. And oh, so terribly slowly, I could feel the shift of fabric as the supposedly snug bodice, well - unsnugged.
Out popped my left breast.
In front of the entire reception, who were intent on watching the first dance.
Here is something most of you may know, or at least have guessed. I am brutally self-conscious. I am also painfully shy. This was a moment of abject horror. But I also have my moments, and this was one of them. “You have two choices,” I told myself. “Run away crying, or get the hell over it.”
I hiked the bodice back up, grinned and waved at the poor, violated crowd and said, “Hi, everyone!” and finished the dance. This was my wedding, dammit. A celebration. I’d be damned it I let that moment ruin it all.
But, truth be told, it’s still ouchy. And if I had it all to do again and could change only one thing, I’d buy a dress. I wanted to be fairy-princess pretty for one day. When can I ever do that again? But then, it is one day, and now it’s ten years on and I still have most of those loved ones around me and I still have my sweetie, who thinks I’m beautiful and desirable and brilliantly talented and assumes that everyone else sees me exactly as he does.
I call that a win.
Oh, and *tappitytappityTIMESTEP!*
*jazzhands*
