It will be a happy day. I’m happy now. And, despite circumstances, I’m staying happy, at least until after the celebration. Maybe even for a longer time than that, since I’m so extra-specially happy.
My oldest child is getting married this weekend. Okay, a marriage is nothing unusual, in most cases. But—he’s 41! Doesn’t that count as somewhat of a miracle? Not to mention that he’s never previously been married, nor does he have any out-of-wedlock children. To top it all off, his fiancée is 37 and neither has she previously been married or had children. And, for my son to marry, after proclaiming since he was in his teens that he’d never marry or ever procreate, IS a miracle. I had long, long ago given up hope of him presenting me with grandchildren.
So, this is a happy time. Not only are they marrying, they both want children. So, once the wedding is over, I’ll wait for news on that front. Hopefully more happy days to come.
I’m suffering some fears, however, regarding this upcoming wedding.
Despite searching for weeks, I could not find an appropriate dress. Because of my horrendous legs, the formal wedding and my status as mother of the groom (yes, I know, not as important as mother of the bride), I wanted a long dress in a summery colour. No flash; no funereal black. I also wanted some sort of sleeve to cover my bat-winged cellulite upper arms, but nothing matronly or teenagery. Long story short: long dresses, no matter the style, are few, and I began to panic, until I remembered a local formal dress shop. Within minutes of entering the store, I found my dress, which encompassed all the features I wanted: long, elegant, flowing, sheer three-quarter sleeves, low cut (without the girls falling out), inconspicuous (don’t want to upstage the mother of the bride), slim fitting (need to look good). Only the baby blue colour turned me off, since it isn’t a colour I normally wear.
“What size is it?” I had asked the saleslady.
“It’s a six,” she had replied.
Six? No way would I fit into a six.
“It’s a mother’s size six,” she added. “They’re sized differently.”
Mother’s size six? Is that to make us feel better? That we can fit into their pretend size six instead of a regular ten? Because I would normally wear a dress size ten.
“It looks like it’ll fit,” I said. And off to the fitting room I trotted.
It did fit. And I felt like a princess (okay, elderly queen). The look on the saleslady’s face when I walked into the main area confirmed that it was necessary I say “yes to the dress.”
Alas, however, it required a couple of minor alterations to the bodice, plus it was missing a button on the back. When she couldn’t find the missing button, I asked if she would reduce the price—since I had to alter it as well as replace the four buttons. She reduced it by $20 and I was elated! Seventy-nine dollars for a formal gown that had originally been priced at $599!
I guess you get what you pay for. The “simple” alterations I had thought I could do were beyond my capability, despite the fact I consider myself an accomplished sewer. I was afraid I’d ruin the dress or make a mess; I had already wrongly cut off the button loop where the missing button had been located, thinking when I tucked the sheer material into the bodice that I wouldn’t need to replace that button. After days of frustrating fiddling, I made an appointment with the store’s seamstress. Although worried I’d be dinged for a hundred bucks, at that point I would have paid any sum to have the dress fit property. I was amazed when she told me it would be $40 for the alterations.
I had my first fitting last week, but the bodice still needed to be taken up another half inch, so I return on Thursday, the day before we leave for the out-of-town wedding. Nothing like cutting it close, although I’m positive the dress will be perfect then.
So, thankfully, the dress is taken care of. The shoes and clutch I wore at my daughter’s wedding will work with this dress. My hair is trimmed and dyed. Jewellery is selected. Silver nail polish has been tested and works wonderfully, since there is some silver trim on the dress. It will match my white corsage which is to be highlighted with silver.
My middle child, who is best man, is putting together a picture show for the wedding and asked me for photographs of his brother. I spent hours poring through albums, spending more time reminiscing and wondering where my years had disappeared to and awe-struck at how “beautiful” I used to be, despite the fact I had grown up thinking I was fat and ugly. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have those “fat and ugly” years back! And my children—when had they been so little? Where did their years go?
Sadness overcame me at one point. My son, the groom-to-be, lived with his father about the age of ten and onwards, so pictures of him are rare—hidden and scattered in between hundreds of pictures of my other two children. Despite shedding a couple of tears, I did manage to scrape up enough photographs to give to my son for his “show.” I hate to admit this, but my oldest child was a bit of a dork, what with his thick glasses and quirky, puzzled expressions. However, he’s grown into an extremely handsome and kind man.
I hope the newly wedded is still talking to his brother and I after this picture show since, of course, only the dorkiest/funniest photos are being used.
My future daughter-in-law asked me the other day if I wanted to say a few words at the reception. My immediate thought was “no,” until I realized that someone should welcome/toast her to the family and who would do it but me? My ex wouldn’t welcome her to MY side of the family; he likely won’t even welcome her to HIS side. I thought it was the least I could do but told her, “I’ll only say a couple of words.”
Of course, it’s easy to be bold the week before. As each day passes, I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
I’m not a public speaker, I’m a writer. And writers ramble, right? At least on paper. My speech is finished, but it’s more than a couple of words. It’s four pages! To be honest, it’s printed in 72 size font. I don’t want to wear dorky reading glasses in front of 200 people, so I have to make sure the print is large enough so I can see it. As much as I’d like to memorize it, there’s no way I’d be at ease enough to accomplish that feat; I’d freeze and make a fool of myself. Perhaps I will anyhow, staring down at wads of paper and stumbling over words.
Although some needed fortification (in the form of vino blanco) will help, too much will backfire. Since my speech is scheduled for after dinner, I’ll have to be extremely careful with pre-dinner and during-dinner drinks. “One glass only,” I admonished hubby. “Don’t let me drink more than one.” Yikes! Can I stop at one? What fun will that be?
Then, later, groom-to-be emailed and asked if I would say grace at dinner. Me? “But I’m already speeching,” I emailed back.
My son’s response: “Okay then, we’ll get someone else.”
“No, no,” I wrote back. “I’ll do it, unless there’s someone else you’d rather have. I didn’t mean I would not do it, just wanted to remind you I’m already talking later.”
After it was settled that I was still the grace-sayer, I was informed I could say whatever grace I wanted. When I replied I might compose a poemed grace, they immediately responded they had a grace picked out. Okay guys, insult me. Obviously they don’t want to chance one of my poems. A tad sad re that.
Now I have to practice—grace and speech.
That might be too much “speeching” for me.
There’s always bad news mixed in with the good. My mother was due to arrive a few days before the wedding, but a couple of days ago, she landed in the hospital and won’t be able to make the trip. I’m so disappointed. This is her first grandchild and she was so looking forward to the wedding. I know she’s as upset as I and my son are. We’ll miss you, Mom!
I’m craving Licorice All-Sorts. Bad. Or some other licorice candy; I’m not fussy. But, I’m restraining myself until after the wedding. The dress is fitting—skin-tight, actually—around the bodice and down to just below the hips (where it begins to flow gently to the floor). I can’t afford to gain an ounce or I’ll be in fear the zipper will burst. It still may. I have no willpower, so were I to buy the candy now to put away until Sunday, it would immediately be gobbled up. I’ll have to wait until Sunday to buy some. And I’ll sit there (wherever “there” is) and devour the whole bag, no matter how big the bag may be. I suppose that could be my reward for “speeching.”
Thank God for Sunday shopping. Hee hee hee.
My greatest fear of all is that I’ll develop a cold sore. I’m due, since my last one developed over Christmas and I get them at least twice a year. I break out in humongous ones and go into hiding for two weeks. The dratted things encompass one-half of my upper lip, with red fanning out from my lip to my cheek and nose, not to mention the horrendous swelling. I’m forced to buy prescription pills and cream at a price tag of over $125. For this special occasion, I don’t mind the money, but the monstrosity will still be very noticeable despite the drugs, so I’m praying the bugger will stay in hibernation till after the wedding.
Just in case, I have a preamble to my toast: “Most people get cold sores when they’re stressed, but I get them when I’m happy. And today I’m happy.”