I’m en route to Manhattan as I write this, bound for a date with two fabulous men who will see me in my unmentionables within minutes of me walking through the door. Bachelorette party? Impassioned dressing room tryst? Nope. I’ve got an appointment with the men of Birnbaum & Bullock, a bridal atelier whose gowns make me go all googly eyed. Think Badgley Mischka (and I’m on a Treo so I’ll leave it to Johanna to sort that spelling out in the comments) but at two-thirds of the price.
The beauty of going to B&B is that you’re the only bride in their lovely airy loft at that time, unlike other boutiques where you might be forced to (shudder) share your rarified air with another bride. This happened last weekend when I was confronted with the visible evidence that I just can’t wear a Grecian column wedding dress. That’s because I was on a podium next to a girl who could. There are only a few situations in which I am willing to be reminded of my inadequacies: church, reading my Portable Dorothy Parker, and eating my father’s caramel-pecan rolls. I do not enjoy having to add to that list: standing next to some wasp-waisted chippy from Austin.
Then tomorrow morning I have a rise-and-shine session with the women of the famed Kleinfeld’s. They are currently featured in a show called “Say Yes to the Dress” but I haven’t caught it yet. I’ve got 90 minutes and 11 dresses to try on–four contenders I’ve tried on at scattered shops in D.C. and seven new ones I haven’t found anywhere else–so it’s going to be a bit chaotic. But at the end of the weekend I hope to have found “the one.”
Regardless, it’s always a blast to stand around in my undies and have people assess my various flaws while tilting their heads to one side thoughtfully and saying things like “Well, the lack of eating from wedding stress will take that right off,” while gesturing to something that’s convexing where it should be concaving. Good times, good times.