Saying Yes to the Dress

My only daughter is getting married. It's not going to be one of those big, extravagant, wallet-busting affairs (thank you, sweetie) but there are some things that have to happen whether you get married in the back yard or in St. Paul's Cathedral. Item number one is a dress. Little girls may not all have the same dream but most of them have envisioned how they would look on their wedding day at least once or twice. And it doesn't usually involve jeans and a t-shirt.

Yesterday, was our third shopping trip. The first two outings had been mother-daughter ventures, scoping out viable candidates for future, larger viewing groups. I have to admit, I loved having her all to myself. As I watched her try on that first dress, my mind raced back to the times she had stood in my high heels, rifled through my make-up and pranced around in Belle's yellow gown. It was only right and fair that I had first dibs on seeing her walk that bridal runway for the first time. And when they added that veil . . . It was our moment and I'm glad I didn't have to share it with anyone else.

Having walked away empty-handed the first two times out, I felt confident that we'd have a few more stores to hit before she finally said, "I do" to anything. This is a girl who loves fashion; the search wasn't going to be over until she said it was over. (Sorry, I've been watching a lot of Breaking Bad lately). When she and her fiance recently announced that they were moving their wedding date up a little (like three months from now), that idea went out the window. This was go time. There was no time to order anything. My girl was going to have to go vintage, find a sample off the racks, or scour the E-Bay website for jilted brides' cast-offs if she was going to come down the aisle in something other than her nightgown.

When we sat down yesterday with my daughter's best friend, grandmother, and future mother-in-law in tow, it felt different. This time we were in a small boutique that dealt only in off-the-rack samples and close-outs from other bridal stores. There was a warm, personal feel to this place that the big wedding superstores couldn't touch. And the dresses? Classy, stylish designer gowns without the designer prices. I felt like we had wandered into an episode of I Found the Gown.

And within an hour, she had. After trying on an $1800 number that resembled Princess Kate's and a heavily-embroidered beauty with a ten-foot train that would have been suited to a wedding in St. Peter's, she found it. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it looked like since that might result in a speedy "uninvite" next to my name on the guest list but I can tell you what she looked like in it.

Beyond beautiful.

Mamma Mia!

Like a lot of women, I spent a good deal of time trying to distance myself from my mother. As a child of The Fifties and a woman of The Seventies I wanted very little to do with the stereotypical housewife and mother role presented to me by my mom and her friends. They had no life outside of their homes, they never earned a salary above minimum wage, and their main source of validation was their ability to pop out a new human being every few years. I arrogantly believed I could do so much more. And I wasn't shy in sharing that opinion.

Now that I'm looking back with some kind of clarity, I can see that my disdain for most of my mother's choices (the one to bring me or my terrific sister into this world not being among them) never seemed to take into consideration the limited options she might have had. In my youthful ignorance, all I could see was the fact that she depended on the male in her life for money, transportation, and just about everything else and I wanted no part of that.

I should probably mention here that I look quite a bit like my mom. I'm about the same height (before she shrunk an inch or so) and weight. We have the same wet sand-colored hair and fair complexion. The only physical trait I seemed to miss out on were those gorgeous green eyes. What I would have given for those! Anyway, I mention this because when I was younger, I used to be compared to my mom quite a bit. Friends and relatives would repeatedly tell me how much I reminded them of her. They would go on and on about our similarities thinking I would take it as a great compliment. I did not.

Couldn't they see I wasn't anything like her? Couldn't they see that I was a completely different kind of woman? What was wrong with them?

My mom is now eighty-three. In the last few years she has had a litany of ailments, injuries and medical "procedures". To say that she has faced each with grace and fortitude would be like saying Michael Jordan was a pretty good basketball player. Her latest ordeal yesterday, which left her with a few stitches in her eyelid and an eye that looks like she just went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, was met with her typical Germanic stoicism and resolve. Her anxieties always seem to give way to strength; her fears do not paralyze her. She grabs that cane, puts on her size 5 Keds and faces whatever comes her way with grit and determination. She doesn't complain. She just takes care of business.

So, I think I'm finally ready now. It may have taken me longer than it should have but I'm going to be ready with a response the next time a friend or family member tells me I'm the spitting image of my mom.

"I should only be so lucky," I'll say. And I'll mean every word.