I love love. What’s not to love?
I love a good love story (baby just say yes.) I’ve known the bride since she was around seven years old and the groom is one of my faves, they were both gorgeous and in love and it was a beautiful day. Complete with much dancing.
The most obvious sign I’ve been drinking is when I believe I can dance. The second most obvious sign I’ve been drinking is when I start jumping, because after dropping three calves the act of jumping, particularly after drinking, is unadvisable.
Curse you, “I Love It” by Icona Pop.
“Okay, you’re incontinent. What about the dress?”
I’m not much of a planner, so the fact that I had my dress figured out a month ahead of time is a small miracle. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was a Rent the Runway virgin, but no more. You pick a dress, you select two sizes to be sure it will fit, they ship it to you, you wear it, you ship it back. Easy, right?
LIES.
Two days before I was supposed to get my dress, RTR cheerfully texted me that my dress wasn’t available, but hey, I could pick out a backup dress for free! (Insert swearing and panic.) I received said text at work during a meeting, so I’m trying to keep my face noncommittal while on camera, but I can’t be sure I didn’t mouth “What the fuck!?!” while on mute and looking down at my phone.
I went to the RTR app and looked around for a dress in my currently svelte size 14. I picked a dress. A message popped up and cheerfully stated, “Sorry Fat Ass, no one in fashion wears that size. Go back to Jersey Mike’s and your Mrs. Roper muu-muu site.”
Just kidding.
They just thought it. And to those in fashion I say, “Do you remember what a cookie tastes like? Can you enjoy dark chocolate cake with cabernet? Are you familiar with bacon OR Alfredo sauce?” That’s what I thought. I guess I’ll take the 14.
I picked another dress. Same message. A third time. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. And then I was done. I messaged RTR and said, “I tried to find another dress, you have nothing in my size, please just send the backup size 12 and I’ll see what happens.”
Their bot cheerfully responded, “Can you send the item numbers of the dresses you tried? Maybe I can help?” Which was very cheerful but I was at work and out of time. Send the damn dress.
Did I mention that I made the mistake of ordering the dress to be shipped on Friday and returned on Sunday, without remembering that said wedding was OUT OF TOWN, and I had to leave on Friday morning. Oy vey. I prayed to Our Lady of Jamie Lee Curtis and waited. I did have a backup dress that wasn’t quite the “black tie optional” code but close enough. Much to my surprise, RTR came through and the dress was delivered at 10 a.m. WHEW.
BUT…I vacation in size 12 but I live in the size 14 zip code.
This was going to be a challenge. I took Size 12 and Backup Dress and hit the road with Current Husband. We attended the Night Before Reception and I quickly realized that the small dress wasn’t my only problem.
Rut Roh. Forgot I was wearing clown toes.
Hmm. What did I need to remember to do? I know there was something…
Ah. A pedicure. I forgot that my last pedicure was around July 4 and I had bright blue gel remnants. I was out of time, and the gel wouldn’t chip off. CH even let me use his Swiss Army Knife, but Big Lefty wouldn’t relent. I knew what I had to do - TELL EVERYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN AT THE EVENT THAT I FORGOT TO GET A PEDICURE. Because if you TELL them before they notice, they can’t talk shit about you to the others. Right?!
RIGHT!?!
Saturday reckonings:
Friday night I was overserved. Over the course of eight hours, I sampled chardonnays, espresso martinis, IPAs, and a nominal amount of water. My friend and I gave unsolicited life advice to a bartender. Gravity was our enemy. Our sober husbands got us back to our respective rooms and tucked us in. When I woke up around 9:30 a.m. I enjoyed an Advil breakfast and realized that with a 1 p.m. wedding I had very little time to shower, get that pedi, and get dressed.
Yes, I will take that mini bottle of water. I’m sure my skin soaked in about half of that tub. Parched.
Time wasn’t the only thing that was tight.
I managed to get a nice brown gel on my toes and polish on my fingers (gel makes my fingernails paper thin), ran through a Starbucks drive-thru, and got back to the hotel at Noon. I had until 12:30. Let’s do this.
Someone who spent time in my uterus helped me into the dress. I had Spanx and took my deepest breath. People were holding the sides together. BUT BY ALL THAT IS HOLY IT ZIPPED. The hotel room didn’t have a magnifying mirror, so I did my best Carol Channing (look it up, padawans) and made my best guess as to where my eyeliner should land. As I was running down the hotel hallway, I realized Size 12 had a VERY high slit, which exposed my Spanx. In the elevator, I rolled up my left Spanx leg so it wouldn’t show, much like most WNBA players. So we have that in common.
The dress was nice, but it made me grow a third back breast.
I’m all about healthy living, so I guess I won’t be renting another dress. Or at least not a Size 12. In other news, CH was rocking the bow tie. When you have a sexy boyfriend with you, your own wardrobe malfunctions pale in comparison to his Silver Fox swagger.
Love is all you need, Gentle Wifers. (And sturdy Spanx.)