• Kaye Curren

Oh God, What Shall I Wear?

If I can walk, talk, breathe, and pee through the long hours from the ceremony to the farewells, I will be the most successful mother of the bride ever.

This week’s blog post is a shortened version of my previous post called “Walk Tall and Carry a Silver Shawl.” The emphasis is on finding the mother of the bride dress, shoes, and “cinch” wear for a slimmer silhouette.

In other June blog posts, you will

  • see what happens to that mother of the bride when she encounters the more liberal mores of her daughter and her intended, and finds herself in a bit of a “compromising” position.

  • find out who the mother of the bride encounters at the wedding reception in a lovely 14th century hacienda, and who clarifies to her the real reason she is wearing a pair of red, strappy, sexy shoes.

  • learn how, when all is said and done, old is old and young is young. The young strip and leap into the pool. The old take the bus back to Seville and safety.

Your comments and shared stories are welcome.

Oh My God, What Will I Wear?

When my daughter informed me she was marrying in Spain, I thought, Wow, I have no castanets! But the real problem became what on earth would I wear? Traditional mother of the bride dresses tend to be, you know, ugly. Though I clocked in at 60 years, I wanted to be my youthful best. I wanted a dress to surprise – a dress to dance the night away in, with a silver-templed Flamenco dancer.

My friend, Kathy, heard my reverie, and said, “Cut the fantasies, girl, and start looking for shape wear. You may want to cinch in a few pounds.”

The next day, I tried on a shimmery blue sheath in Nordstrom’s Wedding Shop. I turned several times in front of the tri-fold dressing room mirror - you know, the kind that shows every ounce of flab – and the lighting turned everything green, including my tongue, which I stuck out at the mirror. I looked like a baby pachyderm. I came into the hallway to see if I looked better in that mirror. The saleswoman looked me over with a semi-polite sneer.

"Perhaps a foundation garment would help."

I looked up and down her bony frame, and returned to the dressing room, snapping the door shut.

The next week, I took Kathy along to help. In three hours, I had tried on nearly every dress in the mall. The flippy skirt. The twirly short dress. The swirly long dress. Slinky one piece jumpsuit. (Ok, I admit, at that point, we had lost it.)

“You’ll find the right dress,” Kathy said, as we headed for the parking lot. “There’s a dress for you out there -- somewhere.”

Thankfully, Kathy was right. The next week, I found it, in, do not gasp -- Target. The Spanish proletariat would surely appreciate my economy. It was a simple black "stretchable" sheath, low v-neckline, sleeveless with a slight cap. What appeared to be, on the hanger, a dress I should never wear was, in fact, form-fittingly perfect.

The shoes were next. I knew I couldn’t dance all night without the right shoes. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to find wide shoes in a skinny shoe universe.

A red strappy pair, I thought, to go with the red threads in my shiny shawl.

I went to all the shoe shops in the area and tried dozens of pumps, sling backs and slides. Not one fit.

Finally, and not a day too soon, I found them at Macys. Red, sexy! A strap around the ankle. “I always wanted a strap around my ankle,” I said to the air. “And not four inch heels.”

A young male store clerk watched me try them on and said, “Honey, you don’t want your pinky toe sticking out of those shoes.” I looked down and indeed, my pinky toe was hanging out. I wanted to put my pinky toe in his eye because, at that point, I was desperate, and even though the shoes fit snug, I bought them.

The next week I visited my trusty shoe repair man.

“Joe, find a way to make these shoes fit.” I said.

He said he would subject them to his super stretch machine.

“Don’t come back for five days though,” he told me. “That’s how long it’ll take for these babies to fit.”

Next, the shape wear. Kathy was right. I needed shape wear. I know some are marked XXL, but they are still teeny tiny. Who wears those things, anyway? I finally found a supposedly light-weight garment called a “total body wrap” that sucked in the hips, the rear, the thighs, and the stomach. The trick was to tuck in the excess flab all at once. Getting it on was akin to wrestling a bear. With some trepidation, I took it home with me.

I sent Kathy an email. “The wedding attire is complete!”

She wrote back, “I knew you could do it! Brava!”

Now, I thought, if I can walk, talk, breathe, and pee through the long hours from the ceremony to the farewells, I will be the most successful mother of the bride ever.


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