When I was a teenager, I tried to picture being married to a man one day. Each time, I saw a man and a woman in their early 30′s standing in a kitchen. The sequence was silent, but the couple’s lips moved, each of their mouths making the shape for either language or laughter. The woman stood hunched over a mixing bowl while the man stood behind her, his hands poised to wrap around her midriff. It must have been an amalgamation of scenes I’d watched in movies.
I expected many things would be assumed of me, including: I was a specific kind of woman ; I was straight ; I needed to be told how beautiful I was ; and that this was going to be The Most Important Day of My Life and The Most Important Dress of My Life and thatMy appointment with Haley was not my first attempt at finding a dress. I’d previously dipped my toe into the hunt more nonchalantly.
I had assumed the dresses I’d screenshotted would already be waiting for me. The appointment slot was an hour and a half long, and in my appointment notes, I wrote, “I doubt I’ll need an hour and a half.” This dress wasn’t one I imagined myself liking. I had only picked it off the rack because Haley said I should “grab a wild card!” It was pure white with a vaguely floral pattern stitched across it.