A matrimonial experiment
Metal clamps are fastened on my back and my limbs are contorted like a praying mantis. I fall backward into the arms of a man who gently lays me on the ground in a sea of white.
To the average person, this probably sounds like a terrifying scene from the nuthouse, with the patient stuffed into a straightjacket. For me, it’s just about the equivalent: a day spent in a wedding gown. But sometimes the opportunity to get a taste of normalcy is so tempting that I simply can’t resist.
That’s how I landed at Indra Salon in Andover on a recent Sunday morning, cast in a photo shoot for a book about brides. The brainchild of 17-year-old up-and-comer Phil Picardi, the book will depict numerous bridal scenarios — everything from mafia and Barbie brides to geisha and biker ones. I was pegged for “Pride Bride” because I’m a homo.
Prior to the shoot, I was instructed to go for a fitting at Cristina’s Bridal in Andover, where gowns from designers like Anne Barge and Christos run from about $850 to upward of $6000. I rattle off those names like I know what I’m talking about, but really I’m a foreigner in this land. I’m being led by manager/buyer Maria Dakopoulos down a hallway lined with gowns stuffed into plastic garment bags. (My unease is surely in contrast to the engaged women who walk the same hall and enter the pages of a fairytale they’ve dreamed of since girlhood.) After 17 stints as a bridesmaid and four years as a gown buyer, Maria has seen (and worn) it all.
“You say yes to being a bridesmaid and then you kind of let go of everything,” she says. “It’s all about the bride. I’ve worn some horrible things, but you just put a smile on. When it’s my day, that’s when I can make the choices.”
On average, she says, women will try about 10 to a dozen gowns while at Cristina’s. Me, I tried two that had been handpicked for me, but went with a third that didn’t have a lace bolero. It was gorgeous. Or, as they would say in industry speak, it was a Lazaro silk/satin gown, trimmed with Alençon lace, with a natural waist, sash, and covered buttons leading down to a lace-trimmed train. The price tag tucked next to my bra read $3950. As awkward as I might have looked perched on the little podium, my cowboy boots and knee socks balled up in the corner, I felt a twinge of excitement.
“This is kinda fun to play around with,” I said, “because I’m never going to get married.”
“Never say never,” Maria warned, eyeing me as I pirouetted in the dress.
At this time of year, most women have weathered an onslaught of weddings, bridesmaid obligations, and bachelorette parties, and are now hunkering down for the second wave that hits in the fall and winter. We’ve seen our friends lose their minds with worry, some turning into bridezillas, others throwing their hands up at the absurdity of it all. I am an awkward outsider to most of this, dragging my feet on booking hotel rooms and forgetting to schedule fittings. I am the errant bridesmaid who forgets to buy her matching shoes and mail her RSVP card. I ultimately love the party, but could do without the process.
And now here I am perched on a stool, a MAC makeup artist doing her best to conceal my under-eye circles, a stylist working my thin hair into curls, a professional photographer at the ready, and a friend helping me wade through a heaping mound of tulle to secure about 15 pounds of material onto my body. (And yes, when your dress size is in the single digits and the average bridal gown is about a size 10, the dress is clamped onto you until you gasp for air like a newborn in a strong gale.) My beautiful “bride” is waiting in the wings, along with a pair of handsome gay grooms. Sacks of multicolored rose petals rest just off set, ready to be sprinkled around us.
When I embarked on this adventure, I thought it would be a laugh riot: me in a wedding gown, sweating it yellow with anxiety, my pretend bride spending her day rebuffing my perverted advances. But when it came time to begin the photo shoot, I felt the reality of it — the spotlight on me, the fretting over cracks in my face, the thought of these photos becoming a defining moment in a woman’s life. I wanted to convey that giddiness and joy and security that would make other people see this photo and want to be in my shoes, even with my aching feet and sore back.
Snap. Snap. Beautiful. Just like that. Perfect. Turn a little to the side. Snap. I can see your clamps. Don’t move. Eyes open. Big smiles. Snap. Snap. Put your foreheads together. Get down on one knee. Snap. Point your ring toward the camera. Snap. Look like you’re in love.
After six hours in my pricy Lazaro number, I stripped down, dropping the ivory gown to the floor and removing my heels. Then I slid back into my comfy torn jeans, ratty sweatshirt, and flipflops. I hung the dress carefully by its delicate straps and slowly tugged the zipper up past a mile of tiny buttons. Staring at its empty shell, I thought about all the sentiments this one garment can bring out in a woman: madness, ego, elegance, longing, contentment, peace. But me, I just stuck my bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout and bid the gown farewell. We’d executed a well-choreographed dance with the fantasy, but I was happy to part the dressingroom curtain and return to reality.
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wears the dress in the relationship. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net. To learn more about the bridal book, visit www.indrasalon.com. For a glimpse of some gowns featured in the shoot, check out www.cristinasbridal.com.
