*Sounds like a country western song title, doesn’t it? LOL. Okay, this isn’t the Wedding Dress Blues. It’s really The MOG’s Dress for the Wedding Shopping Blues. But that just doesn’t flow as a title.
The other night, G-Man had to be fitted for his tux for Middle Son’s wedding. When we arrived at Al’s, we stood in line for a few moments while we waited for others to pick up and try on their tuxs. Then it was his turn.
He was pretty quiet since he a- didn’t want to be there, b-didn’t want to be measured and c- didn’t want to wear a tux. (Guess I should tell him how hot a tux makes a guy look.)
Anyway, when we got to the front of the line, the measuring woman whipped her tape around his neck and started counting the inches. She had him put on a jacket, did a thing with the sleeves, asked a question or two and, tada! They were finished.
It didn’t take but a few seconds for them to measure him from stem to stern.
I wished I could just step up and get fitted, too. But for some reason, G-Man doesn’t want to go to the wedding with his wife in a matching tux. What’s wrong with looking like Pete and Repeat? I ask you.
Dreading it worse than G-Man dreaded the tux fitting, I asked him to drive me to the big mall. He knew it would take me a while–like until the universe stops expanding– to find a MOG (Mother of the Groom) dress to wear to our son’s wedding, so he opted to stay in the car. 😦
I went inside all alone and I looked. And looked. I started wishing I had Samantha’s nose so I could just Bewitch it.
I wandered around the huge store until I found dresses. But the ones I found were the biggies and the tinies. At least there was a very helpful woman in the department who seemed excited about her job. Sadly, she sent me to the right place. There, after looking for several l-o-n-g minutes, a young-ish sales clerk ambled past. “You doin’ okay?”
“No, I’m not,” I answered, hoping for some assistance.
“Uh-kay, good.” She went over to keep the register company. For the rest of the time I was there, she never budged from that place. Not when I carried dresses around. Not when I went into the dressing room. Not even when I left the dressing room and left all the dresses inside.
Maybe she thought her job was to guard the register. If so, she was fantastic!
Since I didn’t have a shopping buddy and didn’t have assistance from the store, I texted Sister Debbie, who was out-of-town. (She promises to go with me next time.)
Being the perfect sister, she kept texting me back and talking me off the ledge. (ie: Those dresses always run small. You can’t worry about the size. Just find one that looks good.)