Okay, bridezilla. Technically, she didn’t ask me to do just one thing. She also asked me to bring a date, and not dance with an elderly great-uncle during the couples’ dance.
Fine. I’ll come today.
I think that will be the end of it. But it’s not.
Great. I’ll pick you up in an hour.
It’s only when I’m in the dressing room and attempting to try on the dress that I realize I might have gone overboard on the bacon this month. I’m starting to sweat bullets inside the tiny gray dressing room in the fancy bridal store downtown. It’s the kindof expensive shop where the salesclerk offers you champagne the moment you enter the door, because the markup more than covers the cost, and because you’re going to need alcohol when you look at your first price tag.
Currently, I stand inside one of the enormous, cedar-lined dressing rooms, which just might be bigger than my bedroom at my apartment. I am guzzling down all of my free champagne in hopes that somehow, the alcohol will save me. I stare at myself in the mirror, hair a mess, dress only halfway on, just up to my hips. I haven’t eventriedzipping the zipper yet. There’s miles of light blue fabric, and why,oh why,did Nami pick such a fitted dress? I begged her to go flowy. Begged her. She went suck-to-your-skin fishtail flare because theotherbridesmaids loved it, the ones who wear a double zero on a bloated day and consider a kale smoothie a “splurge.”
I give the dress another hard tug. Nope. No way. I can’t get my hips in here. No matter how hard I try. This isn’t fitted. It’s more like a physical assault. I want to press charges against this dress.
I hear a gentle rap on the door.
“Do you need any assistance?” asks the saleslady, concern in her voice.
I grab the dress firmly and suck in with all my might and yank. Amazingly, it gets over my hips. Now I need to try to get my arms in the tiny little arm holes that seem too small for my wrists.
Wish I had more champagne.
I’m starting to really sweat now, which does not, as I hope, help me slide my arms into the arm holes. But eventually I do it, and now, I must tackle the zipper at the side.
“Uh… just give me a minute,” I pant, glaring at my bareskin, and the two full inches that damn zipper is going to have to swallow if it’s going to make the teeth meet. I might need more than a minute. I start tugging at the zipper and it gives a high-pitched, terrified squeak.
A harder knock comes now. It’s Nami.
“Sora.” That’s her WTF tone. “Let me in.”
“No,” I cry, tugging at the zipper. Come on, baby.Come on.You can do this, zipper. You can. My fingers, slippery with panic sweat, lose their traction on the tiny zipper handle. Damn it. I knew I should’ve brought pliers.
I get the zipper atleastup to the bottom of my rib cage, but my girls revolt. There’s no way they’re going to get sucked into this. They’ve grown bigger, too, as it seems they like bacon. Quite a lot.
Damn it.
I glance at the white furry stole hanging on the hook of the door. Well, I’ll just have to cover up with that and hope Nami—and the seamstress—don’t notice.
Nami knocks again, harder this time. “Sora! Come on!” Her voice is high-pitched and clipped. She’s pissed.
“Coming!” I say and whip the furry white stole around my arms and open the door. The glare of the lights on the three-way mirror hits me, blinding me for a second. I blink, and when I can focus again, I see Nami glaring at me.
“What took so long?” she asks me, suspicious.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Come,” says the seamstress—a very tiny, very old Polish woman wearing black slacks and a silk blouse that matches her all-white hair. She motions to the small, carpeted platform in front of the wall of mirrors. I inch-walk, because the dress isso damn tight, and wiggle my way to it, feeling the zipper teeth pressing into my side fat. I manage to get up onto the platform without ripping the seam—a small miracle—and as I look at myself, I realize these dresses look like something Elsa fromFrozenwould wear, except I’m not blond or skinny, and I don’t have amazing icy superpowers. Though, the way Nami glares at me, I think she wants to freeze me right here.
“Let’s take this off. Yes?” The elderly seamstress grabs hold of the furry white stole, her wizened hands surprisingly agile. But I don’t let go.
“We don’t need to. It’s a great accessory.” I hold on to it like it’s a door from theTitanicfloating in the frozen Atlantic.
“Take it off.” The seamstress frowns, her wrinkles growing deeper on her face. I hesitate and the seamstress and I lock eyes and I can tell she’s confused. I try to communicate silently that all she should do is back away slowly. Let this go. You don’t want this heat, lady. Believe me. And I’m not the only one Nami is going to yell at. Because when she gets angry, it’s like a nuclear meltdown. She radiates it everywhere. Just like Dad.
“Sora! Don’t be like that. Take off the stole.” Nami folds her arms across her chest and glares some more. She already knows what’s coming. And so do I.
Reluctantly, I shed the stole. Nami gasps audibly and her hand flies to her mouth. The seamstress, who has no doubt seen it all in this dressing room, appears unflappable.
“Sora! What the hell!” Nami cries, as she sees my fatty flesh hanging out of the side of her too-tight Elsa bridesmaid dress. She clasps the zipper and tries to move it up. Good luck, sister.
