love hurts

Sometimes you need to find the time to just breathe. I’ve found some time today to visit the beach to do some blogging and some breathing, alone yet surrounded by eerily calm activity. It’s early. Early birds seem to be calm, happy people. Maybe it’s because they are still half asleep. I’ve been drawn to the coast today, like an ant drawn to Jackson and Mika’s food bowl. It’s forecast to be 41 degrees today and it’s overcast and humid. I’ve scurried here like an ant with lots of other ants. But the difference is, I’m a waterproof ant.

We're all very ant like at times in our lives. Rushing around seemingly without purpose and without any sense of rationality, always so busy. You never see an ant just chilling out do you? Kicking back, putting his little ant feet up? Unless it’s a queen ant. They get plenty of time to lie about, and that’s probably why they live 2.5 times longer than your regular worker ant. Stress = short life span. So sometimes it’s nice to just breathe, and blog, at the beach.
So, big news. I've had a wedding breakthrough. The dress. Has arrived. In my life. After a long, arduous search, I have found THE dress. Or maybe she found me. It has been a search fraught with the full gamut of emotions and was nothing like how I thought it would be.

The unofficial search began about a day after Fiancé and I became engaged, followed by a couple more serious shopping trips, which although amazing and fun, served only to further complicate and cloud the concept in my head. I purposely left a visit to this particular boutique until other options were exhausted knowing it was going to test the top end of my budget.

The process started with an interview and a full disclosure of how much I was willing to spend before I was even allowed to think about trying anything on. It came complete with a woman who spoke only in adjectives. I'm just beginning to feel like I can speak and write again with vigour after seeing this woman on three separate occasions. She left me drained. I had no adjectives. She had stolen them all from me in some bizarre act of adjective osmosis.

She explained that she would begin by trying on some ‘amazing’ shapes on me so that my body could speak to her. My body would speak to her and she would translate what it said to the dresses and we would have a solution. She was the dress whisperer. Seemed perfectly simple to me, body obliging. Hopefully Jenny could keep her mouth shut in all of this.

A brief was given via my wedding scrapbook. A visual feast of tulle and satin moulded into 'amazing shapes'. Unfortunately, the adjective stealing dress whisperer informed me that the cupboard was essentially void of anything vaguely my concept. They would have to design something specifically for me. She made it sound like they had always intended to create a gown just like the one I was describing, but I know better. I had inspired her. I was her muse.
 
Just now as I sit here at the beach, breathing and trying to find some peace on the grass under the shade of an old, straggly tree surrounded by no one, a thin lady has sought me out, sitting too close for my comfort talking to the voices in her head. She edges closer and closer to me.

The conversation continues. I guess we all have our own internal commentary but sometimes it makes its way to the outside. Who am I to judge? I sit here documenting my every thought and go on to publish it. The only difference is, mine are consciously shared with an audience. I believe this woman’s public commentary is largely involuntary and is shared with an imaginary audience. I wonder if she was once perfectly sane and then started planning a wedding and lost her mind.
More than likely.

So, as I was saying, I would have to wait for my concept to be designed before I could try it on. So I waited. Patiently.

Nearly a month later, I was back. And this time I was able to try on another amazing shape which very closely resembled the image that had previously existed only in my mind. However, they had been unable to completely finish it in time for my appointment; the bodice was entirely full of pins. I would have to use my imagination and do my best at looking amazing without being stabbed by one of the 235 pins. I succeeded with the first. I didn’t need much imagination, even in its unfinished form, it was clear that this dress was really speaking my language, the translation had obviously been clear. The dress whisperer had woven her adjective laden magic. I was falling in love all over again.

They say that love hurts. Love scars, love wounds and mars. And my dress love was going to hurt me beyond the pins that had stabbed me deep into the upper abdomen during that first fitting. I always like the most expensive things. I don’t mean too, it always just seems to turn out like that. It’s not fair. I very rarely go for it though, usually settling for something more with a more realistic price tag, achieving the same objective. I’d have to do some serious soul searching and book cooking before I could commit to the dress whisperer.

I sought advice from people who had been in the same situation and those who hadn’t. Close friends and family, and complete strangers. The response across the board was largely favourable and I started to feel less sick in the stomach. Fiancé gave me his support, figuring that the acceptance of Dress would give him long term bargaining power to procure things he wanted up to the same value. But I was sleepless and stressed and ant like.  An angry, sad, excited, little ant.

As I said, I’d normally continue looking for something more conservatively priced, something less nice which would do the job. But this was my wedding dress we’re talking about. It’s not something you can go back and settle for. Well some can. Not me. Now, after some time has passed I can justify it to you in three or four different ways. My coping mechanisms have kicked in and I’m able to argue strongly in favour of Dress.

Of course, I asked adjective lady what the dress was called before committing to the purchase. She revealed that Dress was so new; she was yet to be named. Perfect. This was music to my ears. Perhaps they would let me name her. She was designed for me after all. I explained that I would purchase Dress if they named her after me. She chortled at the suggestion. My name is obviously not ridiculous enough to name a wedding dress after. I’m sure if my name was Fililaylia they would be more than obliging. 

I had returned to the store 2 days later to see Dress in a more finished form before she flew to Sydney. I still loved her. Dress whisperer drowned me in adjectives, “the bow will be just a little bit more…adorable, gorgeous, charming, lovely, beautiful, delicious, cute, amazing, stunning, pretty, striking, perfect, glamorous, elegant etc etc.”

It was her. I’d found her. I don’t get to see her again until July, when my measurements will be taken. This date was determined by the dress whisperer asking me how long I would need to get skinny. She didn’t say it like that but that’s what she meant. “How are you feeling?” she queried. I looked at my mum for the answer. The truth is, I had been feeling pretty good, until then. She assured me she meant nothing by it but simply that it’s common for brides to go on some crazy diet or new exercise plan and end up having to pay for extra alterations accordingly.  July was the latest I could go without effecting the timeline too badly. Jenny will be upset. She really has to go this time. At least for 6 months. So it seems no wonder that stress sets in. If I don’t maintain my weight from July – November, I’ll be looking at extra alts and extra $$’s. But it’s not actually as bad as it sounds, we’re talking in excess of 3cms, and I have until July to get where I need to be, and stay there. Piece of cake. Gluten, fat, sugar and carb free cake.