In which I manage to make someone else's wedding all about ME

A large portion of today has been spent in Abject Fear. For today is the day I hand myself over to the bridal shop harpies for fittings and tryings on of The Bridesmaid Dress. Much has been written about this abomination to girlkind, the poofy, the puffy, the irridescent, the fuschia satin on the redhead, the strapless on the shy, the sheath dress on the pleasingly plump, the plunging neckline on the flat-chested. How many wedding photos feature a line of tall and short, fat and skinny girls, struggling to smile while stuffed into the same satin horror?

Fortunately I am working for a bride who cares much more about whether we, her bridesmaids, will still like her after the wedding than the style of the dress. She picked the brand (After Six), the color (purple, I mean, aubergine) and the length (long)- the rest is up to us. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but Internet? I am not known for my fashion sense, nor my svelte figure. I fear that in allowing me to pick the dress, the bride has made a dismal decision, one that will doom her wedding photos forevermore to the dustbin of Oh Good God Your Bridesmaid Looks Like My Grandmother's Furniture. And She Owned A Bordello.

Not only must I choose a dress tonight, I must do so in the presence of the bridal shop harpies, the scary women with blue eyeliner and acrylic nails who own the keys to the dressing rooms. We had to make an appointment to try on these dresses. Now, I have heard that this is standard practice. In fact, I know many a former bride who made several such appointments during her quest for the Perfect Gown, often bringing her mother and her sisters and her friends along. I'm assuming they all sat in quaint Victorian settees drinking tea while the bride tried on the 897 versions of Strapless and Poofy and stood on the Raised Platform of Holy Brideness for their yea or nay.

Internet, the mere thought gives me the vapors.

When Phillip and I finally had the argument that ended with "Fine! Let's get married," I immediately began thinking of ways to avoid the whole dress thing. Seriously. I have Saleslady Rage. No, I don't need any help. No, I do not want you to start a room for me. I'm just looking, thanks. Please don't ask me about opening an account. And NO, I am not interested in a bra fitting, THANKS. Gah. Does a girl like me want to walk into a froofy bridal store and spend the next three hours trying on rack after rack of white lace confections? No. We are not all Star Jones. Internet, this is just a prime setting for a panic attack of the worst kind. I may be a drama queen attention princess on my website, but if you try on a dress at David's Bridal, you can't look at yourself unless you leave the dressing room. Because all the mirrors are on the OUTSIDE. Where everyone can SEE YOU. AND WHY, UNIVERSE, IS IT SO???

This is why the good Lord saw fit to give me an aunt who not only can sew, but was crazy enough to be honored when I asked her to make me a dress. I know. She soooo did not know what she was getting into.

But ANYWAY. This isn't MY wedding we're talking about. Although the point remains. Any fellow haters out there? I am not kidding. I am thrilled beyond measure that a Fellow Bridesmaid, one with GOBS of Bridesmaid Experience, is coming along. And she has a heck of a lot more backbone than I do and could be quite useful in telling a saleslady to lay off, should the need arise. Send happy purple thoughts my way, Internet, in hopes that I will find a dress that will not embarrass me, the bride or the populace at large. You can check out your options here, and don't be like my sister and preface every recommendation with "Oooh, this would look good on ME." That just wouldn't be helping now, would it?