In the movie High Society, Grace Kelly wears this wedding dress with a ¾ length, A-line skirt. It has sheer, billowing long sleeves and delicate flowers embroidered on the tulle. I was no more than ten years old when I first saw the movie and I had never seen anyone more elegant.
Years later, when it came time to buy a gown of my own, I needed something ¾ length. The image was branded into me as the epitome of elegance. But, in 2013, the retro look of a shorter wedding dress proved difficult to find. I searched the internet for hours, looking for anything that resembled what I’d envisioned and tethered to the idea, I wouldn’t consider an alternative style.
And then, bam, I found it. Or at least, I found something that exuded a similar retro-Hollywood aura. The dress was ¾ length and it had the long, sheer sleeves, the wide skirt, and even the delicate tulle. With a more art deco vibe, the embroidery had wide, abstract floral patterns and the hem of the dress was scalloped. The material wasn’t white, but a sandy, cream tone. The model in the picture wore a flapper-style headband and for a moment, everything felt like it was headed in the right direction. Even better, the dress was on sale.
I waited until the next day to make my purchase, and rather than build unnecessary suspense, I will tell you that I did not wear that dress on my wedding day. I went to buy the dress online and it had vanished into the world wide ether. Panic surging through my body, I called the company. They had one gown that had been a floor model at their Chicago store. It was final sale and a size 4; a tight squeeze, but I didn’t care. I ordered it anyway, believing that if I just had the dress in my possession, the rest would fall into place. While I’m happy to report that I was not a bride who starved herself to fit into the perfect dress (Conversely, at work I ate copious amounts of bakery scraps and after work, I drank pints of beer. Neither habit supported Mission Grace Kelly), and the dress never fit.
A couple months before the wedding, I still hadn’t found something to wear (that actually fit). And at some point in this scavenger hunt, my mom convinced me to go to David’s Bridal. David’s Bridal is a national wedding apparel company with outlets across the country, but more accurately, it is a dizzying labyrinth of fluff, tiaras, satin things and white; so much white. David’s Bridal packs the unapologetically consumerist side of a marriage into a single store experience and the excessive quantity of dresses leaves everything feeling as generic as Walmart brand cereal.
However, David’s did have a ¾ length gown. The sleeves were capped, not long. It was A-line, but stiff, and there were tiny beads sewn all over, like a thousand white ants. Theoretically, did have some of the attributes I’d been looking for. There was nothing arguably wrong with it, except it felt like the McDonald’s Happy Meal version of the toy I’d actually wanted. Despite the feeling in my gut, I said yes to the dress and the salesclerk rang a bell per some David’s Bridal custom. Who was this David, anyway?
I studied my reflection, and the dress fit fine. It looked fine. I looked fine. And this would be fine, because it was just a dress, and who cared anyway about silly bells and the rows of gowns that all had started looking alike. I told myself that the dress would look better when I brought it home where it wasn’t lost in a sea of a hundred others. I bought a blue petticoat and blue, satin pumps to give it a pop of color, trying to improve it a bit, and because this should be fun.
Not only does David offer the bell thing, but he also sells gown preservation packages. After all, what would a wedding dress shopping be without a good upsell? Would you like a tiara with that? Some white gloves? Spanx to suck in your gut? Some fries? As a result, my dress lives perfectly preserved in the basement crawl space between Halloween decorations and extra suitcases, the bust of the dress visible through a plastic window of a rectangular box, like Snow White on lifeless display in her glass coffin.
A few weeks ago, while digging out cake pans from a storage bin, the tiny white beads reflected the single lightbulb overhead, begging my attention. The conversation went something like this:
Dress: “Yoo-hoo! Hello, remember me?”
Me: “Hello Dress. Yes, I do remember you. You look very well preserved.”
Dress: “I am, but I’ve been in this basement for a long time now. What are you going to do with me?”
Me: “I could prop you up in the back corner where you can wait to be discovered by the next homeowners. It would be an exciting second life as a good story; the creepy wedding dress from the basement.”
Dress: “I suppose that’s an option. Maybe you could save me for your daughters?”
Me: “I’ve considered that my daughters might like to see you one day, but I wasn’t thrilled by you in the first place and now, well, you don’t know this, but I’m divorced.”
Dress: “Oh gosh, I didn’t know…I feel a little silly all preserved over here now.”
Me: “What should we do?”
Dress: “It would be nice to get out of this box. Maybe you could burn me? That might be exciting.”
Me: “You are more fun than I remember.”
Dress: “I’ve changed a little bit since we first met. Just promise me one thing.”
Me: “What’s that?”
Dress: “Remember that you deserve better than me next time.”
Me: “I promise. I’ve changed a little bit since we first met too.”
High Society was Grace Kelly’s last film before she became the Princess consort of Monaco. As a part of marriage and her new role, the Oscar-winner gave up the movie industry. She was twenty-six and had made a total of 11 films. Prince Rainier banned Kelly’s films in Monaco. Knowing this tinged the dress I’d considered so elegant with disappointment. Understanding the full story changes everything. In retrospect, even had I worn the perfect dress with the billowing sleeves and the gentle embroidery, it would have had the same fate as my old friend in the crawl space. It would have wanted to burn.
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