Main Street, In Shapewear

Once upon a time, there was a silly girl. Pretty, but silly. And she got married.

And then she got divorced. And lived happily ever after.

Or something like that.

You know how, after you break up with someone, you still find traces of them around? Shirts, jewelry, notes, that gag-inducing mix cd? It can cause emotional upheaval at worst, and is annoying at best. The memories, like the individual, need to go.

Sometimes, there's an obvious solution to what to do with the memoirs. Donate, throw away, burn return to their owner.

But what do you do when the memoir is your wedding dress?

That dress and I...we've been through a lot. I've had it for...oh my...eleven years?! And it's seen two engagements. Two very disastrous engagements. I'm having a hard time typing with my head in my hands, just thinking about them. "Engagement" inspires romantic feelings involving fireworks and bubbles shaped like hearts. And everyone always wants to know how he asked.
(Please note: this link does not take you to a story of either of my proposals. Those stories are reserved for inner circles, and only after enough wine has been circulated so one can no longer tell whether the listeners are laughing or crying. This link takes you to a much happier place.)

"Entrapments" fits my situation much better. Yes. I like it.

And I like the dress. It made me feel pretty in the midst of everything. But I don't want it in my life forever. Besides how I looked in it, the memories that are sown into the fabric alongside the pearls are not joy-filled. And I don't need a formal, flowing reminder of that in my home for years to come. I have (the lack of) child support payments for that.

Enter: Main Street

A bridal fashion show was to take place downtown, showcasing & selling previously-loved gowns.

And I wanted in.

I registered and showed up to sign the necessary paperwork like a good little divorcee would.

And it was there that I was informed of the feeeeel of the bridal bash. "Alternative."

Psh. Ok. That's not so bad. What's that even mean, anyway? I mean, I tend to steer clear of music boasting the "alternative" label, but that's because of bad words and scary cover art. And a show featuring wedding dresses can't possibly have bad words or scary art. It's unholy...and probably illegal, right? The David's Bridal police would shut that down with carefully choreographed sashaying and juuuust the right amount of tulle. It's FINE. I'm going to sell my dress and another bride-to-be is going to love it and it is going to be amazing.

And here is me, at the dress photo shoot, ignorantly assuming this is similar to how I'd look in the actual show:

 

And the other models began showing up. Many of them already knew each other. They had tattoos. I have none. Two were men, (or at least had been at some point.) I had (gracious, handsome, supportive) Sean. 

On some faraway, "alternative" planet - we're even.

I had to shift my focus & rally around my bottom line: to sell my dress. Sell my dress. Because at this point, I was feeling very out-of-place. And make no mistake - I was acutely aware of the potential for awkwardness for Sean: sitting next to me, in my old wedding dress, a few seats over from a couple other dudes, in old wedding dresses.

Praise the sweet Lord for Sean's patience. I was the first one photographed and we zoomed over to the Anchor Bistro to enjoy wine and the realization that it was 21 months for us.

Fast forward to Main Street on a Saturday. The show. 

I walked into the designated basement room - stuffed to the brim with dresses and drama. And literally stood there, in the middle of the hairspray & glitter tornado, and took it all in between hopeful glances at my cell phone.

So. much. eyeshadow. 

And eventually it was my turn. I asked a lovely gal if she would apply two vivid shades of blue to my lids, which I then begrudgingly exaggerated with black liner...and glitter:

This picture doesn't do it justice. And, oh, how thankful I am for that. But what's that? What's going on with my hair? I literally have no words. Just this:

  

At the risk of full-disclosure (and my remaining dignity), please try to imagine the height, the volume, the sheer intensity of it all, but without the bobby-pinned control. For a good 10 minutes, I was a hair planet. It was radiating out from my head until my 26th pass by the mirror when I finally acknowledged several lines had been crossed (gravity and self-respect being two). This, this was the happy medium that resulted from the chaotic blending of "alternative" and "ARE YOU KIDDING ME".

I did manage to glean a few things from the whole experience:

1) I met some beautiful & hilarious girls who didn't hold my ink-free skin against me.

2) Shapewear can make anyone any shape they want.

3) Shapewear can be abused just like alcohol, friendship, or ice cream.

4) Strolling down Main Street on a Saturday will always make me compulsively check my hair.

My dress is still available. Weird.