It’s just a dress. Two Sleeves, a bodice, a waist.
No one else really cares what it looks like. But I do. It’s my last date with my son. Oh, dear; did I say date? I meant to say ‘dance’. Or did I mean date? I don’t know.
Why do I feel like I’m losing my son? What is it about your first born- sobbing as I type- getting married that turns a somewhat sane mother
to a whimpering mess ?
I haven’t spent this much time worrying about a dress since I was the bride.
So much to consider:
It must not be too sexy, it cannot be too loud, it should not bring attention, nor draw unwanted gazes.
How goes the adage; mothers of the groom are to show up, shut up and wear beige?
Armenian girls look awful in beige so I’ve amended it
to be mute, look cute and don’t trip on the bride’s train.
At this point you’re probably wondering why I’m not wearing a Safeway grocery bag with two holes cut out for my arms and one for my head.
The dress, the dress…I’ve scoured the racks. Neiman and Marcus, bless them both, have become constant companions these past few months.
The salesgirls at Saks nod, bob and duck when I walk in the door. Here she comes again, they mutter.
They can’t understand my indecision. How many times must I visit, examine and try on the same dresses?
This one is too garish – aquamarine with rhinestones? I’ll look like Ariel from the Little Mermaid. That one too depressing; black taffeta with ¾ length sleeves? Who died?
Gold lame with ruching? Didn’t Liberace’s mom wear something similar on his big day?
Oh, and peach. Have I mentioned peach? There’s a lot of peach out there.
And chantilly. And chiffon. For goodness sake, I’m the mother of the groom, not a dessert.
Don’t forget the jackets. They all want to give you jackets.
Thank you very much but I’ll tell you if I’m chilly or not. You know what they’re implying: boleros will somehow hide the bat wings. Or are they, in fact, for unruly MOTGs who might go rogue and ruin the reception?
Just reverse it, tie it up the back and carry her out. I can see it now…
I have asked the bride and her mother for a clue as to what my counterpart will be wearing.
A sari, they tell me. That’s it. No color cues, not a hint
to go on. Obviously, they have it right. They’re not obsessing, so why am I getting caught up in this silliness? Because I want to send forth my son from my arms to hers looking chic and composed while I’m feeling none of the above.
Fast forward to a week before the wedding. Dress is chosen. Dresses plural, I should say. The kind in-laws very graciously offered us a gift of their native clothing for the Indian ceremony. With every good intention,
I concluded that I’d be more comfortable in a dress
of my choosing. Instead of donning the purple and saffron colored tunic and matching pants, I opted for a blue and yellow chiffon number, showing just a bit of back, enough to cover the love handles.
For the Christian ceremony, I ended up shopping my closet. After weeks, no, months of wailing that nothing looked like ‘me’, I chose a gorgeous red sheath that had resided in the back of my closet for years. It comes out only for special occasions. And what could be more special than my son’s big day?
I tried it on and thought, ‘banish the beige, rev up the red’. My boy’s getting hitched and we’re going to celebrate.
Heading now to the ceremony, the big day has arrived.
Am I nervous? Admittedly, a bit. Am I well dressed? You decide.
Am I proud of my wonderful son? Without a doubt.
Let us go forth now, in style. Amen.