I Got Some 'Splainin To Do

A few months ago, the ladies of Chairsy’s bridal party ventured to Rhode Island for our initial dress fitting. As the least shy amongst the group, I was led into the dressing room first to strip before my mimosa had fully kicked in. The wedding consultant took my measurements and then sat quietly for a few moments, furiously scribbling mathematical equations on her notebook and eyeing me warily. Finally, she explained (in that tone that you use with your dog when you’re trying to coax out from under a bed during a thunderstorm) that bridal couture runs small. VERY small. Always. Fact of life. Even congress can’t change it. I nodded patiently and smiled in a good-natured way. She told me not to feel personally affronted by the size she was about to suggest for me. I acknowledged that it was just a number and that I was not the type to determine self worth based on clothes tags.

Still, she flinched as she told me I was on the cusp between a size 16 and 18. An 18 would need to be taken in, a 16 would need to be let out. I considered her statement for a moment and explained that I’d lost almost a dress size in the past few months and that I was planning to continue with that diet plan. So, I picked the smaller size with the best of logical intentions… and also the slightest distaste for the number 18 which feels large and cumbersome even when you just say it out loud. Eighteen. Look how terrible it is written out!

Last week, I picked up the dress and two days ago, I finally had time to try it on. I was expecting it to be an extremely tight fit that would need to be let out. I was not expecting a one and a half inch gap circa my rib cage.

Bitch LIED to me.

I shrieked for Beau’s help. After a few earnest tugs he shook his head. I began muttering soothingly, “That’s OK. I’m still losing weight. I just need to keep going. I’ll have it let out as much as possible. Yes. And then it’ll fit just fine. Everything’s going to be OK.” Beau backed away slowly while I wiggled out of the dress and began a Jillian Michael’s video.

I later asked Beau what it’s like to be engaged to the modern equivalent of Lucille Ball. Considering my track record of attempting to kidnap dogs, getting locked in stairwells, convincing myself I was in the men’s room at my new office, and breaking my ass while trying on Spanx, I don’t think the comparison is a far cry. Really, who gets themselves into these situations on a regular basis?!

He shrugged and said I make his life “entertaining.” Which is exactly what I think losing one and a half inches from my ribcage in just over two months will be like.