It's Only Fitting

Unless hell freezes over, I don't plan to be remarried -- or even thinking about it -- by my next birthday. But I can't help myself; I am obsessed with the idea of shopping for a wedding dress, just to see what the real deal feels like. And with nothing inherently special about turning fifty-three -- it's a prime number, not even divisible by seventeen, according to my very bright friend Cherry -- I need to create my own fun.

I am already dropping hints, paving the way for a gathering of my posse in New York City where I will try on every style of wedding dress ever made at the television gown capital of the world, Kleinfeld's. I don't necessarily require that my appointment be captured on film -- although it would certainly be icing on my birthday cake to star in a Say Yes to the Dress episode -- but I do expect a private audience with the extremely gay gown guru, Randy. Naturally, my greatest fantasy would be to turn him straight, but I will settle for an excited swish of his narrow hips and a big juicy hug.

The other day, I kind of got caught up in a Big Bliss marathon of Say Yes. I was riveted by the spectacle of morbidly obese women -- and I mean morbidly obese, with tattoos on their arms wider than my ample ass -- floating through the stock room of fluffy, feathery gowns, seeking the magical dress every girl dreams about. (Well, almost every girl; my daydreams of satin and tulle and lace and jeweled tiaras only began recently.)

Anyway, the pattern was pretty much always the same (and I am not just referring to the preponderance of African American fiances in this particular demographic). Hope at the beginning, despair after the first few dresses made them look more like giant pagodas than princesses, and, finally, tearful joy when some figure hugging gown seemed to perform nothing short of a miracle. And then, there's the final fitting, where the seamstress, a genius who I am certain has an advanced degree in engineering, always manages to take some of the delicate fabric and build a sturdy fortress somehow capable of containing boobs the size of small planets. The show has it all: drama, suspense, fantasy, and even a touch of science fiction.

If I am to compete with any of this, my posse of matrons of honor (who will not be forced to wear lavender chiffon on the off chance any of this leads to a wedding), will need to begin preparations for the big day now. We need a back story: a groom to capture the imagination of a broad audience (I'm thinking a twenty-five year old is probably the way to go), a tortured relationship with my mother (that'll write itself), a long lost sibling who needs a spleen transplant and I'm the only match (should be easy to find a neighbor in the trailer park willing to hook herself up to a few tubes in a hospital bed just to make a few bucks), and a whopper of a budget (to match my whopper princess dreams).

Space in my entourage will be limited, so if you have any interest, start working on that resume. Anyone unwilling to tell me I look absolutely stunning in everything need not apply.