The Great Dress Quest: Bad Timing OR Location, Location, Location
In ten days my son will become a husband. This act on his part means that I will become that most dreaded of all beasties (cue the scary music): a mother-in-law.
I promise here and now, in this public forum, not to be the meddling sort, partly because I’m just not wired to engage in that stereotypical behavior, and partly because I’m a busy woman and have neither the time nor the energy to add “meddle in Joey and Ashley’s lives” to my to-do list.
In an effort to begin as I intend to go on—laid back and accommodating, because that’s how I roll, Buttercup—I asked my future daughter-in-law what she would like me to wear to the wedding. It’s a beach wedding and not formal, so I figured Ashley might have something in mind. “Oh, you know,” said the beautiful bride. “Something beachy and flowy.”
Beachy and flowy. Got it.
Except I don’t. Try to find a beachy, flowy dress in Georgia. In February. Two weeks after an ice storm.
I have dragged my favorite shopping buddy, who is also my beleaguered husband, to damn near every mall, department store, free-standing dress shop, and clothing depot within a 100 mile radius. Bridal shops? Been there. Consignment stores? Visited every one. Online? Oh, please. The only beachy, flowy online dress suitable for this mother-of-the-groom was on backorder until . . . drumroll . . . July 17th!
Four or five shop managers told me my quest for a dress is three weeks premature. Come back the middle of March, they said, and more spring stuff will be available. Great.
When I whined, my son, who lives ten minutes from the beach and thinks shorts and flip-flops double as formal wear, said, “It’s your location, Mom. Too bad you don’t live down here. There are lots of beachy, flowy dresses. They’re everywhere. You’d trip over them, there are so many. They’re so plentiful you might even develop an allergy.” Had he been within arm’s reach I would have twisted his ears, the brat. (He’s yours now, Ashley! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!)
So the countdown to the wedding has begun, and as it stands now I’m showing up naked except for my wedding ring. Okay, scratch that. I promised not to meddle in the kids’ lives, and nothing says meddling like stealing the spotlight at their wedding by showing up, quite literally, in the buff—although let’s be honest here, given the subheading of my blog there’s an argument for trying to pull that off.
There are yet two malls to be explored and I shall descend upon them this weekend with my optimism and Spanx intact. Somewhere out there in the vastness that is Atlanta retail, I will discover that most elusive of all things—a beachy, flowy, mother-of-the-groom dress, not too casual, not too formal, but just right. I will not abandon the search until every store has been visited, every rack explored. I vow to continue until I’ve trod upon every mall hall and the bunions on my feet scream for mercy. The dress is out there, buried like a deep sea treasure, hidden amidst the abundance of commercial cloth, trapped on a rack waiting for my steely gaze to ferret it out. It’s there. Waiting. I can feel it.
Now I just have to find the damn thing.
Please show some solidarity and leave a comment about a time when you had to buy the perfect something that refused to be found. Did you eventually find what you needed, or did you compromise?
Wish me luck in my search, Buttercup, and I’ll see you next week for more of the naked truth!