Chapter 8
I am a wimp.
I am definitely a wimp, but I am a wimp who is trying on wedding gowns and veils at Vera Wang. I am a stylish wimp. I am a fashionable wimp. I am a complete sellout, but I look incredible.
Delilah had called ahead to Vera Wang to let them know we were on our way, and we were greeted by three smiling fashionettes who not only knew my name but spoke to me like we were old college roommates. Delilah had e-mailed a dozen pre-picks from Vera’s gown line—hopefully not the rotisserie version of me on CD-ROM with various Vera wear on—and the fashionettes had already pulled each of them in my size and had them displayed—spotlit, even—in a wide, mirrored palace of a dressing room. I could practically hear Delilah purring in the background as I stepped from dress to dress, letting my fingers brush barely against the silk and illusion netting, the beaded bodices and crisscross straps. These are real Vera Wangs!
I caught my own expression in the mirror—how could I not since we were surrounded with them—and saw the same slack-jawed expression and wide-eyed awe that Anthony had the time he met Michael Jordan. If Vera Wang herself had walked into the showroom, I might literally have passed out. The fashionettes disappeared for a moment. I’d assume they enjoy seeing the dumbstruck look on future brides’ faces just being in the same room with a Vera Wang, and I could imagine them imitating the dopey eyes and twitches of the badly acclimated like myself. They returned all smiling and chipper, with their jet black hair perfectly parted down the middle as if with a ruler, their eyebrows done to perfected arches, makeup flawless, manicures flawless, and—as I unfortunately noticed as one bent over to move a pair of strappy white try-on sandals out of the way—apparently wearing very good lingerie. The bender wore a G-string with its unmistakable flash of skin below the string. The other arrived balancing a silver platter on her too-tiny hand, offering both Delilah and me a glass of champagne with a single raspberry in the bottom of each glass. Leave it to Vera.
And with my first sip, I was initiated into the sisterhood of the Wang. My mother had never been so proud. I was finally moving toward her end of the spectrum.
“Hmmmm.” One of the fashionettes took a stance in front of me, jutted out one bony hip and brought her knuckle to her lips. With one wave of her hand, which I inexplicably understood as a message to spin slowly in place, she proceeded to catalog me. “She has to take it off,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“The top. Take off the top,” Fashionette Number 1 waved circular motions that reminded me of a belly dancer’s handwork.
Okay, this was a dressing room, not a hidden camera show, so I peeled off my top. Despite worrying that the fashionettes and my mother would notice that my bra was not designer, I stood taller, sucked in my stomach a little bit, and waited for my next command. As expected, “Zee bottom off,” from Fashionette Number 2. Off came the skirt, which left me in my bra and panties (no G-string, thank God) and black socks, which I stripped off of my own accord. I was now a slowly spinning underwear model, having assumed exactly the same position and appearance as on my mother’s spooky CD-ROM. Rotisserie Emilie. This was definitely something the fashionettes laughed about afterward. It was perhaps their humiliation payback to all the “princesses” who could afford to shop here. As long as I wasn’t spinning in my underwear like this with a Pomeranian tucked under my arm and cradled like a baby, I was okay.
“Good shoulders.” Fashionette Number 1 still had her knuckle at her lips, and I noticed she had smudged some of her ruby red lip gloss onto her front tooth. Which gave me some satisfaction. I’ll analyze you right back. “Good back. She lifts weights, no?”
“Yes,” my mother said, without knowing if I did or not.
“We have to do somesing about zee skin,” Number 2 said, pushing at each blemish or beauty mark she found as if she was ringing a doorbell.
Number 3 stood to the back with a creepy smile on her face and no helpful analysis.
“Okay, zee skin needs zee help.” Number 2 whipped out a BlackBerry and made notes with a pointer. “Arms, they are good. Hold out your arms, dear.”
I did as instructed and held my arms out to the side. She flicked the bottom of my upper arm and looked mortified that a little pooch of skin there actually moved.
“I wasn’t flexing,” I heard myself cry out.
Notes were made on the BlackBerry.
Hey, where’s the royal treatment I’m supposed to get here?
“Waist is good.”
What? No calipers so you can measure and announce my body fat percentage?
“Hips are good.”
My mother looked proud on that one, and she may even have said “Thank you.” I’m not sure. By this time, with my head spinning in the opposite direction of my body, I wasn’t doing much listening.
“Legs are good, but they are not seen.”
The silent and eerily aroused Number 3 in the back of the room chose this moment to speak up. “Lift her hair,” she said, and did her own version of the belly dancer’s hand swirl. And in a moment, 1 and 2 had pulled my loose hair up into a pile on top of my head, which allowed Number 3 to simply go, “Hmmmmmm” and then leave the room.
“Can I try on a dress now, or do you want to take a Pap test too?” I snapped.
Once the air cleared of my outburst—which doubled Leah over and made her fall off the couch when I told her about it later—I was allowed near the gowns. Number 1 helped me slide the delicate silk sheaths over my head, or helped me step into a zip-up ball gown, adjusted the illusion netting across my chest or along my arms, arranged the beaded crisscrosses when I was about to get tangled in them. And just generally made me look a bit more graceful during the stages of dress and undress. More so for their own comfort than mine.
I twirled, I floated, I walked on my toes to watch the skirts swish and to see how that sheath fit my back view. I stood between opposing mirrors to see myself coming and going at the same time. Number 3 would probably have dipped me if I’d asked her to, in order to see how I’d look dancing in this particular dress with my husband. All of them felt wonderful on, but where was that electric message you’re supposed to get when it’s The One? An old saying goes, “When your mother cries over the dress you have on, that’s the one.” Well, I’m screwed, because my mother never cries.
Dress Number 11 and dress Number 12 were on and off, and still no electric tingle. No tears came to my eyes. And then came lucky Number 13. Fashionette Number 3 walked into the room with a big white bag, unzipped it, and gently uncoccooned a dress that shot electricity throughout the room. It had a fully beaded bodice, a princess neckline that angled down to show my bare back in a sexy plunge, a straight silk skirt with a tiny and undramatic train. “Once I saw the back of your neck, I knew which one was for you,” Number 3 said.
Numbers 1 and 2 busied my mother, who was visibly agitated that this renegade dress was not on her original list. I could hear them cooing at her, feeding her her lines: “Doesn’t she look beee-youtiful?” and Delilah had to agree or suffer the image of not having “in” tastes for fashion. That’s when she squeezed out a few tears, but those were probably only because Number 3 deprived her of being able to tell her seven hundred closest friends and Katie Couric that she chose my wedding gown.
As Delilah dabbed her eyes and turned away, I watched her in the mirror. She was definitely not holding it together. Five minutes ago, she sat straight-backed with her legs folded under her properly, sipping at her champagne, and now she was turned in her seat to hide her face as best she could being surrounded by mirrors, digging through her purse for some Visine, and pushing the tears back into her eyes with the sides of her fingers. She turned then, and smiled. Donna Penks was there. Just a little bit, but my mother was there. For a second.
“Emilie, you look beautiful,” she said, and that’s when I lost it. Numbers 1, 2 and 3 dived at me to remove the