1 Bride = 5 Wedding Dresses

 

Most women have only one wedding dress. I had five. That’s a whole lot of fabric for one woman’s closet. Here’s how it happened:

 

Dress #1

First off, I’ve been married twice – not five times. But, I know, five dresses is still a lot, even for two weddings.

 

For my first wedding, my mom offered to make my dress. A talented seamstress, she took me to the fabric store where we picked out a pattern and 10 yards of white taffeta. The pattern called for a fully beaded bodice. For months, Mom worked on my dress, using an embroidery hoop to work her way around beading the bodice.

 

“It’s just like needlepoint,” she said. “No problem. We’ll get it done in plenty of time.”

 

We bought out all the glass bugle beads from every fabric and craft store in town more than once. Two weeks before my wedding, Mom slipped and broke her wrist. The beadwork wasn’t finished. How could I get married with a dressed that was only three-fourths beaded? I freaked out and hit the bridal shops.

 

Dress #2

Tucked along a side street shadowed by a giant magnolia tree sat a dress shop going out of business. I tried on a puffy Princess Di number. No way. Then, I found a satin mermaid-style sheath with puffy sleeves. It was white, an indeterminate fabric and fit perfectly. This would be my “insurance dress.” It required no alterations and cost only $50. The heavy-duty full-length zippered garment bag that came with the dress was worth at least that much.

 

When I showed it to my mother-in-law, she gasped and then smiled.

“Something is right,” she said.

 

No, something was very, very wrong. Granted, I’d bought a dress, but it was not the dress. That dress – whose pattern had made me say definitively, “That’s the one” – was still stuck in an embroidery hoop.

 

The insurance dress hung ominously on my bedroom door. My bridal showers came and went. My mother kept sewing, sitting in front of the TV with packs of beads. Sewing and sewing and sewing right up till the day of the rehearsal dinner. Somehow, she finished it and we called it a day – a wedding day.

 

The marriage didn’t last, but the dress did. It’s safely preserved in a big box in my attic. I can’t bear to part with it – and it’s not out of loyalty to my ex-husband. The dress brings back memories of all the hard work my mom put into it, while wearing a cast.

 

What happened to the insurance dress? I sold it at a consignment shop for $120. (I kept the garment bag.)

 

Dress #3

When I got engaged eight years later, I found a fully-beaded sheath on eBay for $45. After a fierce bidding war, I won the dress for $80. The first time I’d gotten married, eBay wasn’t even invented yet. The dress was one size too small, but my wedding was a whole year away. I would go on a diet. By the time June rolled around, the dress would surely fit, right?

 

Wrong. Who wants to diet when you’re engaged? There are too many moonlight dinners to enjoy. The wedding was two months away, and I didn’t have a dress. So, I did what any woman would: I called my best friend.

 

Dress #4

Shannon had gotten married a couple years earlier in full-skirted silk shantung number. The wedding took place on a beach in Nantucket. She sent me her dress via FedEx from Boston. It was sealed in a large box with a label that read, “Museum-Quality Restoration.” I called her.

 

“Are you sure you want me to break this vacuum-packed seal?” I asked.

 

“Yes!” she said. “That’s why I sent it.”

 

I lifted the dress out of the box and sand poured out. Splinters from the wooden walkway she’d marched down were embedded in the hem. So much for museum-quality preservation. The shantung had definitely seen better days. And, more importantly, the dress just wasn’t “me.” It suited Shannon’s personality perfectly, but not mine. I put the gown – and the sand – back in the box and sent it on its way.

 

Dress #5

Time was running out. The wedding was two weeks away. My fiancé took me to a bridal superstore that was holding a $99 sale. The first dress I tried on was The One – strappy, cut on a bias and very Jean Harlowesque.

 

Finding the right guy took some effort, but finding the right dress was a lot more difficult. After a few tries, I’d found the perfect man and the perfect dress. Five years later, I still feel the same way.

 

Anna Seip is an editor who lives in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.