Feeling suicidal at David’s Bridal

A dear friend of mine is entering the fine institution of marriage and has bestowed upon me the honor of being one of her bridesmaids. Now I really am happy to be a part of her big day (and I am not just saying that because she is most likely reading this). The truth is, it really is an honor just to be nominated, er—I mean asked because photos from one’s wedding day last forever, sometime even longer than the marriage. What I mean to say is that I will most likely be gracing the mantle, piano, or banister wall of the happy couple for at least the next 50 years, so naturally, I want to look smokin’ good.


The bride had chosen her color months ago and told us we could select any style we wished, alleviating my initial anxiety of finding something flattering. After several weeks of friendly reminders from the bride, I headed to the store and, wanting to get it all over with early in the day (and before I could possibly eat or digest any calories), I waited outside the entrance for the clock to strike eleven, the magic opening hour. I entered the store and immediately felt like a Disney princess in her castle closet. I was surrounded by satin, chiffon, and taffeta in every shade of the rainbow, from plum purple to goose grey. I immediately began to pull dresses off the rack, twirling around on my tippy toes and wrapping myself in the trains of sparkly, gleaming gowns.


My personal shopper Charlotte (that’s right, the store assigns every customer to a shopper who assists them with the difficult challenge of changing clothes) told me all the dresses could be done in any color. After forty minutes of zipping this and tying that, I settled on three finalists. These were dresses that I actually liked and possibly, under certain circumstances (for instance, should I be invited the Whitehouse Easter Egg Roll), might wear again. However, Charlotte soon broke to me the bad news. She had been mistaken and none of the eight dresses I tried on came in the bride’s chosen shade, “Pearl Pink.” Slightly disgruntled, I asked Charlotte to bring me the dresses that did come in the crimson hue, while I waited in the dressing room half naked. (The dressing room mind you, did not have a door but instead, two swatches of fabric barely big enough to meet in the middle, fastened together by a binder clip). It is there that I anxiously await Charlotte’s return, crestfallen when she comes back with a paltry two dresses. I sigh and choose the one that is the least clingy, chalking the loss of my dress dignity to merely the trials of being yet another bridesmaid.

I proceed to the register where I am filling out the dress order form, when the woman at the cashier asks if I have been measured. I said I had not, since the sample dress fit fine, but she says no, all customers must be measured. It is at this point, so close to goal line that I suffer my game ending fatal fumble. Right there, in the third circle of hell, otherwise known as David’s Bridal, not one, not two, but three sales associates spring at me and begin to measure every inch. One is at my hips, the other my waist, and the third is, in all honesty, spending just a tad too much time at my bust. My literal nightmare was coming true, and right in the middle of the showroom floor. I manage to squirm from the reins of their measuring tapes, pay my bill, and escape, ecstatic that I got out of there in one emotional piece. However, it is then that I remember I must to return in six weeks to pick up the dress…..though on second thought, maybe I’ll just have it delivered.