Daughter #4 is going to the junior prom Saturday night. She has been earning her own money and has paid for the limo (yay, they’re commuting in a carpool! No drunk driving, either.) She bought her own ticket. She has an appt for nails at my trade salon and is doing her own hairdo. I’m paying for the boutonniere ($10).
But the dress…she wanted something vintage and wanted to go to Berkeley, which is fun and fabu but I just did not want to get on the freeway and drive there and deal with impossible parking, shopping, etc. I am a recovering consumer and it gives me the jeebies. And I’m old and tired besides.
I said just humor me and let’s look in my closet.
Uh, right, Stupid, I mean Mom, she implied with one quirk of her lip.
No, seriously. I hauled out about 8 dresses, all ravishingly beautiful and she picked the one that is way too young for me anyway (BCBG silk lime green polka dots) and said maybe. I have never worn it, or maybe once on honeymoon weekend. She thought it was OK.
Then I went into the attic and got into the “pink thing,” which is the wardrobe-hanging closet thing where baptismal gowns and First Communion dresses and old cheerleader uniforms go to die. What else goes there to die? Wedding dresses. I have 4. (And that’s not even counting the gorgeous white one with the bustle and train that I already consigned.)
I pulled those out as well, and you know what? They are vintage. And she liked them. Not the Victorian-Laura Ashley-style granny lace but the white satin sheath that went underneath. She took the champagne silk cummerbund with red satin roses from another wedding outfit and put them all together. She has shoes from last year and consented to wear them! I might even have some opera gloves somewhere.
I will hem the white under-sheath (which has a poofy skirt and a bustier type bodice, in white satin, aged to slightly off white) to her length, and voila — cheapest prom dress ever.
Now I can finally say that it was worth it to get married 3 times. I’ll be sewing if you need me.
Sweetest words ever: “You were right, Mom.”