“I had my second dress fitting.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Fine. The only problem is me in it.”
-C. and Venice
I work our regularly, my weight hovers between a very healthy 115 and 120, I have low blood pressure, and I’ve achieved that rare state in a woman: I think my body looks pretty good. Or at least I did. On saturday I went in for another wedding dress fitting and my confidence crumbled at my feet. I don’t care if you’re freaking Gisele Bundchen, put on a form hugging dress in a really light color, turn on glaring, unforgiving fluorescent lights, and stand in front of nearly 360 degree mirrors and even you would suddenly feel whale-ish.
In other depressing wedding news, our invitations have come and while they look lovely, my mother wants them hand addressed. ?!?!?! I may have to get all my girlfriends together one night, promise them food in exchange for services, and beg them for their help because not only is my handwriting atrocious, the idea of addressing even just my share of our 400 invitations makes me want to cry! I’m fully aware that the reception is my parents’ party, they are paying for it, they are throwing it, they are hosting it, but I have this small whiny child inside me who wails, “Do I have to?”