Dressed in white, in the South, after Labor Day? No, no, no. Even though I loathe this Southern “rule” of fashion, I can’t bring myself to break it. It just feels wrong. Unless, of course, the white item you’re wearing is a wedding dress.
This past weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of wedding gown shopping with my dear friend, Nancy Margaret. I felt honored to be there with her as she tried on dress after dress, and listened to comment after comment about them from the other bridesmaids (and her mom). She looked good in almost all of them – and the ones she didn’t look good in had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the dress designer. One particular dress made her look as if she was on her way to a toga party at the Kappa Sigma house. She was such a good sport about our opinions, puzzled faces and head nods.
We (and by “we” I mean she) found THE dress at the end of the day on Saturday. She went in the bridal dressing room alone this time, and called us in after she had it on. Everyone cried, including Nancy Margaret…which never happens. I’ve never seen her cry, except when we watched Man On Fire, and everyone cries at the end of that movie. Even Hitler would shed a tear over that one.
I lived with NM for three years, and I couldn’t help but flashback to the many days and nights we would try on an outfit for work, or for going out, and give our thoughts on what we should add/take away to make it “just right.” I can honestly say that seeing her stand there, dress and veil on, she needed nothing else. She looked perfect.
And, it’s official, I will be a sobbing mess when she walks down the aisle.
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