A Feather in My Cap

The countdown to the "wedding of the century" has begun in earnest, although I think it's too early in the century to presume that the label will stick. Nevertheless, it's hard to resist a good fairy tale; maybe this one will even have a happy ending. Or middle.

While Christians everywhere celebrated yesterday the resurrection of the Easter bunny (gosh, they are a weird bunch), my daughters and I settled in for hours of pre-nuptial programming. I've become so invested in the event I'm starting to talk funny. This morning, I was puzzled by a bit of anxiety, until I realized it must just be a case of vicarious jitters.

Our prenuptial festivities began with a compilation of Say Yes to the Dress episodes featuring some of the famous wedding consultants' most infamous princesses. The princesses came in all shapes and sizes, bringing all sorts of opinionated and fittingly mean-spirited entourages. The princesses stomped their glass-slippered feet and whined and pouted with great abandon as they each became increasingly disillusioned in their quest for a fairy tale. Whether they were too fat or too ordinary or too financially strapped or just too damn ugly to walk out of Kleinfeld's feeling like Cinderella, the spectacle was, in all cases, sobering.

Just when we couldn't bear to watch another loud mouthed spoiled bitch squeeze herself into a dress that would have looked better on a pig, we were rescued by a replay of the wedding of the last century. The fairy tale of Charles and Di was as fresh in my mind as if it had happened yesterday -- the beautiful princess marrying the somewhere short of hideous but certainly distinguished prince. Chills went down my spine when I first watched it thirty years ago. This time, it was certainly chilling, but for far different reasons.

There was no happily ever after for Charles and Di; frankly, there was hardly any happy at all. Even armed with hindsight, though, knowing that Charles' true love was actually a guest in the church and that Diana would die tragically only sixteen years later, the fairy tale seemed convincing. The promise of a blissful life as long as the bride's train, of a connection as strong and sly as the quick stolen glances between the two, of a future as sparkly as the princess's tiara. All of this seemed possible, and, frankly, I think it all seemed possible because of the gown. It almost made me a bit more sympathetic to the Say Yes princesses. I sort of get it. Sort of.

Will and Kate will no doubt learn some lessons from last century's biggest day. I certainly have. First of all, it really is mostly about the dress. For me, the magic evaporated as soon as Diana appeared in her pink Little Bo Peep ensemble -- her "comfortable" travel clothes for the train ride to the stodgy British estate where the couple would begin their life together. And, I think I learned that it's not such a bad thing to be mostly about the dress. What the heck; if happily ever after is, more often than not, just a fantasy, why not have the dress and the pictures to prove you had your stint as princess for a day. I also learned there are very few Jews in Britain; how else does one explain the haphazard collection of jewel tones sported by the female guests? Not a swatch of black fabric in the house.

I will spend some time this week searching for two pastel hats made of osprey feathers that will rival the one the Queen Mum wore when she watched Charles and Di tie the knot. And at four a.m. this coming Friday, my daughter and I will be watching the wedding of the twenty-first century in appropriately questionable style.