Back when I was fourteen, the fish plant that employed half the people in my hometown decided to up and close. Ten thousand people were thrown out of work, so you can imagine the stress that put on families. Some broke up, others stuck it out and lived together in poverty, while a few left in search of work elsewhere. My family fell into that last category. It was quite the culture shock, moving to a big city; especially since small town living was all my family had known for generations. Like I said, it put enormous stress on everyone. Not the kind of stress that comes with picking out a wedding gown, mind you.
I wish I could tell all the ladies who come into my wedding gown shop the story I just told you, if only to give them a little perspective, but I know they wouldn’t listen. Some sadistic bastard drilled it into their heads when they were little girls that their wedding day was supposed to be the prize to which all females should aspire, and if it wasn’t fairy-tale perfect then everything that followed that day would be just as awful. That’s why they come in here wanting to look like a princess, a sex-bot, or Hollywood glamourous.
I had this one bride, I kid you not, who convinced her mother to spend twenty-six thousand dollars on the poofiest, tackiest, sluttiest dress I have ever seen in my life. Princesses aren’t supposed to let their breasts hang out all over the place, but this one seemed to think they should. She also seemed to think that someone bedazzling every square inch of fabric was the way to go. She and her mother fought throughout the whole appointment.
“It’s an awful lot of money for just one day,” the mother said trying to reign in her daughter.
“But it makes me happy,” the bride said before bursting into tears. “Why don’t you want me to be happy on my special day? You hate it when I’m happy!”
How this girl found a man stupid enough to put up with her special level of immaturity was beyond me. The mom caved and paid more for a dress that day than anyone back at the fish plant ever made in a year.
But then I’ll have normal brides come into my shop. Brides who know that having money for a downpayment on a house is more important than a dress they’ll only wear for twelve hours. Brides who know that it’s what comes after the party that counts in a marriage. Brides who know that a timeless looking dress will hold up better than something trendy in the pictures they’ll be looking at twenty years from now. And they will still want to look at the pictures twenty years later because brides with a good head on their shoulders will still be married then, unlike the ones who spend more time picking out a wedding dress than they do on choosing who is supposed to be their mate for life.
The normal brides are the reason I do what I do. Sometimes I’ll even throw in free alterations or a veil if I think it will help them save for that twelve hundred square foot fixer upper of their dreams. Eventually, every couple has to face a fish plant story of their own, so if I can give the good ones a break I will.
Slutty bedazzled princess is on her own.