Something Old, Something New [Part 1]

My new husband, my new dress and I in 1996.

This is the story of how I ripped apart my wedding dress last night–and why.  No, I’m not getting a divorce or even seeing a marital counselor at present.  The truth is, while my husband and I are dancing in the minefields like every other married couple, I’m probably happier than I’ve ever been throughout my almost fifteen years of marriage.

This story begins with the dress itself.  I was just 23 when my mom walked me into the storefront of Victoria’s Bridal Shop on Ft. Lauderdale’s Las Olas Boulevard.  I honestly can’t tell you anything about the five or so other dresses I tried on.  This one was the first.  When I came out of the dressing room, the store’s owner–a charismatic man named Coco–magically material-ized and told me in his low-spoken, dulcetly accented voice that he had personally designed this dress, which he authoritatively pronounced was made for me.

Even if my less secure younger self wanted to disagree with such an artist as Coco, I really couldn’t.  It was that simple.  I swooshed around the store happily.  My mom cried. I was measured.  My mom paid the $1,400 (causing my dad to cry later that evening), and then we left, the whole blearily memorable experience comprising only about an hour.

One last look: me and my "middle-aged" dress.

Since my wedding day, the voluminous dress has lived in cramped quarters–first my parents’ vacuum closet and most recently my bedroom closet.  In between, it holidayed for two years in a lovely vintage clothing store on Orlando’s historic North Orange Avenue.  No buyers.  When the store moved, I had to pick-up the dress.  Subsequently, I learned of various excellent organizations that accept worn wedding dresses to benefit women with breast cancer, among others.  However, none accept “middle-aged” dresses like mine–and like me–those too old to be considered modern yet too young to be considered antique.

What’s more, as I mentioned in my Grout of Control post, we are contemplating selling our house.  Hence am I on a rampage of obsessive cleaning and purging.  The wedding dress was occupying a lot of real estate in our walk-in closet; I had to push around it daily to reach my actual wardrobe.  And although I donate frequently to the vets, I couldn’t quite bring myself to just dump it in a bag and set it outside my door to go who-knows-where with who-knows-whom.

My husband, ever the practical one, insisted we should save my dress for our daughter to wear, you know, someday.  My ten-year daughter herself was noncommittal; her only firm position was to object to the notion of discussing anything to do with kissing a boy, you know, someday.  As for my mom, I think she’s still just happy to have her vacuum closet back.

"Let her rip!"

So what possessed me to mutilate Coco’s masterpiece?  Why did my husband ask, “Have you really gone mad?” last night at midnight?  And will we–the dress and I–find our happily ever after? Of course we will.  This is a story, after all.  Forgive me for “threading” you along, but you can learn the answers to each of these questions and more on Friday, no April foolin’.