I don’t have one wedding planner; I have many. They consist of every friend, cousin, neighbor, and absolute stranger to marry before me.
The funny thing I’ve observed about planning a wedding is that you ingest an exorbitant amount of knowledge that you can only use once, creatively constipating every new bride. This pent-up energy then results in a phenomenon that I like to call the “Beached Bride Effect.” Like oscillating forces of the Earth, every beached bride will inevitably find herself in the path of a drowning bride-to-be (like me) who she will proudly spare from despair by bestowing upon her sea of knowledge, and ultimately affording her the chance to splash her bridled waves one more time.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not mocking, I am grateful. For this effect, among other earthly phenomenon, is how I found my photographer, florist, cake lady, bridal gown, and videographer—basically everything. This is the same force that caused my Beached Bride, cousin Lephie, to pick up the phone one fateful morning and send me spiraling into bridal mania unaware and unarmed.
Just days after I got engaged, I flew to NYC for work. Upon learning my whereabouts, Lephie called me up and insisted I visit a store called Kleinfelds. Naïve to the fact that this store was the Mecca of bridal wear and the subject of a popular reality TV show, “Say Yes to the Dress”, I got out my credit card (deposit needed for appointment, FYI) and agreed to let her set up an appointment.
Sitting for lunch that afternoon with Joyce, a seasoned and fabulous NYC theatre journalist, I explained to her that I had to get myself to 20th Land and Something for 5 pm to try on wedding dresses. “Without your mother? You can’t do that all by yourself”, she replied. “I think I know the owners of that place, let me come with you.” And just like that, darling Joyce and I hit the express bus (her preferred way of travel) all the way from uptown to downtown, making our pilgrimage to the pearly gates of bridal heaven.
It was really better than I could ever imagine. Within about three seconds of walking through the door, I—the pagan bride—became a believer. There’s really no other bridal store like this on earth. The décor, the mannequins, the staff who look like mannequins, even the chandeliers made me feel instantly important—like I belonged there, like I was about to cash in on the ultimate reward for sticking it out thirty-three years to wear that white gown—COUTURE.
True to her word, Joyce knew the owners Ronnie and Mara and just like that, our very innocent trip became a red carpet ride, hosted by Randy Fenoli. Hooked up in Heaven Joyce? Must be an angel.
First there was Herrera, Carrara, Lee and Lacroix , then Mishka and Mandongus but the world stopped dead in its tracks with Maija—Ulla Maija to be exact.
It was perfectly simple and perfectly me. The cut, the color, the understated detail. I was in love, so was Angel and everyone else who stop to watch me flirt with the mirrors in the main room. My only regret at the time was that Lephie, my dearest Beached Bride, couldn’t swim in the sea of pleasure with me.
The dress was not out of the ballpark in terms of price either. But as I started taking on the price adjustments for fitting, tailoring, over-the-border taxes, flights to get back and forth, the fairly reasonably priced PERFECT GOWN became a down payment for a condo.
I mean, I never thought I’d cheap out on a dress, but I also never thought I’d pay more than a few K-notes for twenty-four hours of pleasure. I’m far too rational for that. Call me crazy, but if I could wear it at least twice, then I could justify the price. This was not equal to the indulgence of a brand new watch or a handbag you’d carry forever and a day—this was a onetime deal. Like breaking the bank on a car just to drive it around the block an hour … make sense? Apparently not to the millions of viewers that tune in weekly, and definitely not to me at that moment.
