He had my wedding dress, which had been hanging in our spare room closet, vacuum-packed and sealed in a box to ensure that it would never yellow or become damaged. It was beautifully done, opening to display a see-through window view of the bodice, topped with my veil and the little fake diamond tiara. A princess-y concoction that I purchased at The Bay in downtown Calgary, it was one of the few elements of my wedding that I got to do with my mother and sister since we were planning the wedding in Tulsa, where we lived at the time.
When he proudly trotted it out for our anniversary, I nearly cried. Not with joy, not over his thoughtfulness. No, I nearly cried because I was mad.
Why?
I still liked to wear it.
I never told anyone. He didn't know. But sometimes, when I was in the house alone, I'd put on my wedding dress and, you know, hang out.
But as the years pass, I'm actually glad that it's all bundled up and out of sight.
Because if I had to try to put it on now? Well, that would be even more devastating that not being able to wear it while I watch re-runs of Friends. Now it's a gorgeous vacuum-sealed monument to a pre-two-tinies-in-two-years waist.
Please tell me I'm not nuts. Although the doctored photo of me and Monica might have tipped the scales a bit out of my favour on that score.
