My wedding dress has been at the dry cleaner’s for ten months. It had already hung by its garment loops in an extra closet for nine years. One hundred dollars is a lot to spend cleaning something, and I vaguely sensed that it was uncleanable, that I’d take it to a professional, and they’d tut-tut me for ruining such a lovely dress. I’d had so much fun at our wedding that I’d trashed the lower two-thirds of it. Red wine, champagne, violet lipstick, grime–who invited them? But New York City and a lesbian guest insistent on catching the bouquet will leave their mark on white satin.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
I understand the tradition of saving a dress for one’s daughters, but it’s unlikely I’ll pass on any dress to a girl of mine. If I were to have one she’d likely be as outsize as my “little” boys. My husband is of Norwegian stock; I’m not. The first time I was pregnant, and long past the turning-back point, I was at a brunch, and another guest began hectoring the hostess’s dad, an obstetrician, about the high rate of cesareans in the United States compared with other countries. The doctor acknowledged the disparity, but noted that our melting pot had created situations like mine. “This woman should not be bearing that man’s child,” he said, nodding to us to graphically illustrate his point and scare the hell out of me. “She’s not built for it.”
So there I was later that day at my neighborhood dry cleaner’s blabbing some of the above to the nice Korean lady who runs the place, including the line about not having any daughters.
The next month: “Oh, no,” she said, frowning. “I sent it back. They did not do a very good job.”
This dress had suddenly become dear to me. And now it seemed it was dear to others.
But when I turned to leave the store I saw a huge white box, as bright and festive as a wedding present among the quilts and rugs and shoes sent out for repair. I checked the tag. It was for me. It was my dress. I could have taken it home with me right then, but I didn’t have $100.
