Changes....

It’s come to that point where I could no longer put off looking for a dress, especially when the mother of the groom is anxious to look for hers and she’s respectfully waiting for me to pick mine first. Those are the tacit “rules”, as I am told. I, being the characteristically atypical mother of the bride, really don’t care about the rules or conventions of wedding etiquette. Consequently, I procrastinated for weeks, then months, to start dress shopping. Not to say I didn’t cyber-shop. You can find beautiful dresses that way; however, it’s impractical because we all know you have to try on the dress because it’s always going to look great on the model in a picture.

I distinctly remember the day of my own wedding, almost 32 years ago, my mother was so distraught about her hair; it had been thinning and she was not happy with the hairstyle the hairdresser had done for her. She was almost in tears (in fact, scratch the “almost”) on that day. It was important for her to look beautiful, as well. At 22 years of age, I didn’t “get it”, but that vision remained indelible in my memory. Ego-centric brides in their twenties don’t consider that their moms have to be “number 2” on the scale of beautiful that day, according to my friend, Barbara, at least.

Now, I realize that I will be the exact age that my mother was when I was getting married. And, just as my mom was in 1978, I am going through my “changes”. Ahhh….the beauty of menopause; the time in a woman’s life when she always feels hot and that’s in the literal sense, not figurative, unfortunately. Besides for those emotional and internal physical transformations that are occurring, there are the external physical changes that seem to appear out of nowhere. One of my favorite books I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron, expertly illustrates what middle-aged woman experience at this time of their lives. I am certainly not of the writerly caliber of Nora, but I will try to explain. Let’s start at the beginning-or rather at the middle, the middle part of your body, your waistline, or more specifically the disappearance of it. Nice. The neck I could hide because scarves are the new fashion accessories. But the waist and what’s below it becomes another accessory I could certainly do without. “Loss of estrogen,” my older sister explained it. Well, let me add that to my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday pillbox. But no, my gynecologist prescribes Paxil. “Isn’t that for people who are depressed?” I ask. “Trust me,” my gynecologist tells me, “women are saying it stops the hot flashes.” So, my hot flashes cease and all of a sudden, I notice an even thicker middle. My friend Roselee tells me, “My doctor said Paxil makes you gain weight.” Wonderful. So I have to make a choice- be hot or a size 12. I chose hot. Goodbye Paxil. Hello, gym. Planet Fitness. The only thing is that I notice when I start to do the weight machines is that the pictures on them that tell you what part of the body you are working on are illustrated on the male anatomy. Gender bias alert! I consider writing a letter to Planet Fitness. Then I finally come to a machine with a female picture; of course, it’s one that firms your buttocks and thighs. We don’t want to talk about what happens to those. Hanging, sagging, rippling, bulging, dimpling- the “ings” of middle ag-ing. Not a beautiful th-ing.

I was having a discussion about this with my best friend, Meryl. She decided that whoever designed our bodies got it wrong. For instance, the teeth- why do we lose the first ones at 6 to be replaced by the “permanent” ones? If Meryl were our creator, she would have us lose our first teeth at 40 and get our replacements then. Makes sense, right? Of course, this would put my dentist out of business. But, for once, I would like to go to the Bahamas instead of sending him and his wife there.

Back to the dress…

The truth is, no matter what, make up and black camouflage everything. The problem is, the bride refuses to let me wear black, or anything really dark. I thought of wearing a pair of Spanx, but when I wear that, I feel like I’m suffocating. I considered those dresses that have layers of crinoline under them to minimize me. However, I was never a crinoline girl; besides, I don’t want to have to carry my dress around and those dresses are like having another appendage. I am not a beige person, either. It washes me out. I decided to forget about color for the moment and focus on style. I wanted simple, yet elegant, sexy, yet sophisticated, flowy chiffon, with a bit of sparkle. I wanted to look like Daisy from The Great Gatsby, graceful and artistic. You know the bathing suits that are called miracle suits that make you look ten pounds slimmer? I needed a miracle dress, or one that makes me look ten years younger. If Meryl and I ruled the world, she would be our creator and I would be a clothing designer for middle-aged women. This way we’d have great teeth and look good in whatever we wore.

It happened when I least expected it; I was out shopping with Kim, sister of the bride, and we were right across from a trendy dress boutique. We went in. I tried on dress after dress after dress. Some were flowy, but didn’t have enough sparkle, and then some sparkled, but were stiff and matronly. It was confirmed that beige is definitely not my color. And suddenly, Leslie, the saleslady, brought it over. Immediately, I fell in love. It was a slate blue with a hint of silverish purple, not black, dark enough, but not really dark. It was sparkly on the top, chiffon on the bottom. It even looked like Daisy Buchanan would wear it. It was draped at the middle part, though. “Will this make me look fat?” I suspiciously asked Leslie. “Oh no,” she responded, insistently, “just the opposite-it is very slenderizing.” Hmmm.. It looked great on the hanger. I tried it on. “This is YOUR dress,” Leslie stated, as sure as anything. But she was a saleslady. I looked at Kim. She smiled, “I love it,” she said.

Luckily, the bride was only ten minutes away; heaven forbid I would buy a dress without her participation. She got there in five minutes because she drives like her father. She approved…sigh of relief. “Write it up,” I told Leslie. Two seconds later, she called her future mother-in-law. “My mother bought the dress, you could start shopping.” Everyone’s happy.

It’s getting closer. No more dress shopping. Back to Planet Fitness. Two hundred seven days to work against gravity and the other consequences of menopause. Things are going to change, yes, but for the better.