Dead Weight

For this story to make sense, you have to picture a body bag. Yes, a body bag. You've all seen CSI or some similar show, right? So you know what I'm talking about when I refer to those big black zippered bags that the unsuspecting hookers always find themselves stuffed into after they decide to stop servicing the generic lowlife who treats them badly. (Or they would find themselves in such if they weren't, you know, dead.) Actually, think bigger than that. Think of rows and rows of those sacks being dragged around by medical professionals as they try and control the Ebola virus on one of those science movies you watched in middle school.

Ziiiiiiiip. The pulltab goes up over the face.
Thump! Bump! The bags get dropped into a pile.
Weird plastic rustling sound. Heavy sacks get dragged to an unseen, yet assumed depressing location by the still living, barely-holding-on-to-sanity-type drudges in white coats.

Got that picture? Not so pleasant, right?

Now add about 50 petulant teens and twenty somethings arguing in high pitched voices. Throw in some overly loud, extremely dramatic motherly wailing. Remove the sweaty jungle scene and put everyone in a room the size of ...well, my living room. For the sun, add extremely bright, scorchingly hot spot lights every four or so feet. Replace the medical professionals with middle-aged overly perfumed women in sweaters (but keep the body bags), and you've got the scene I was facing last Saturday. Scared yet?

Last Sunday I was forced to go to the bridal shop went to take possession of my wedding gown before they sent it back to wherever in Spain it came from. Apparently the momentous occasion of picking up an overpriced beaded gown that takes a full six months to craft needs to be accompanied not only by a credit card to pay for the thing, but also an hour long modeling session in which you stand on a pedestal wearing a still ill-fitting dress, stuffed into loaner shoes and "pick accessories." Seriously. And if you're lucky like me, you get to do this during April when both "prom season" and "wedding season" are in full swing. (Who decided those things get to have seasons anyway? Me and that guy should have a talk.)

So I show up, put on a dress that is destined to fall off of me at *any moment* unless I magically hit a second round of puberty that puts me up into a D-cup, and let one of aforementioned hostesses place me on a pedestal. Literally. Like generations of women haven't fought tooth and nail to get us down from these things? Bah! Moving on. While I bake under the hotlamps (which in 4" heels, I am freakishly close to) and my assistant flutters about hunting the perfect veil, I attempt to keep my upper half from its imminent public debut by holding my breath and chanting "Its going to be ok. You can do this. You aren't 15 and retarded. No breathing, it'll fall down. its ok..." Its actually working pretty well until...

THUMP! BAM!
"But Mooooooooooom, I wanna...."
Scraaaaaaaaaape
"WHADDAYA MEAN I CAN'T SPEND $4K ON A DRESS?! ITS MY DAY!"
Ziiiiiiip!

And so forth. My reverie is broken by designer dress corpses being dragged about the store to pacify whiny teenagers and their horrid entourages. How do these workers put up with this? How does anyone? I mean, these people are obnoxious! Maybe the worst women are getting knocked over, zipped up and dragged out back, unbeknownst to the normal people. Maybe the overly hot lighting causes convenient "fainting spells" to facilitate stuffing the dead weight into readily available sacks. Probably not. But it seems somehow appropriate.

Musing, standing, and not breathing, I break out into a sweat without really doing anything. Damn, I hope this doesn't mean I have to pay to have this dress cleaned before it even fits. Eventually I pick a ridiculously-so-far-over-there-should-be-another-word-priced piece of net with ribbon around it, stuff my dress into its very own body bag and make a beeline for the door. I spend the rest of the day swallowing Advil trying to combat the second worst headache ever. Up to this point wedding planning has been fairly painless for me...but I'm beginning to see why some people break out into hives over it. I wonder how much else I can do via the internet...