More than meets the eye

I was about four when I realized I lacked the wedding planning gene. I know what you’re thinking: That is way too young to tell, and how do you remember some random conversation when you were four? Something about the embarrassment of being so incredibly wrong has stuck with me all these years.

I was playing with a strip of translucent red cellophane that was included in my Transformers toy, holding it up to my eyes not just to reveal the secret pictures and words on the box, but to stagger around the room as I looked through it, turning the afternoon sun into a red haze all around me. I happily exclaimed to my mother that this must be what a wedding is like. I have no idea why I drew that parallel, and neither did she. When asked, I didn’t have an answer, and so it was just dropped, teetering out there as just another ridiculous thing kids say.

But here I am. Planning one of those things, still nearly as deficient in this estrogen-fuelled area. I’m told girls plan this in their dreams for most of their lives, but I honestly haven’t thought about it much before. If asked to count the number of blessed events I’ve witnessed, I might need all my fingers but probably no toes. And so far I’ve managed little more than vague ideas as a framework. (No extreme weather: hot or cold. Alcohol will be served. I’d like to spend less than a new car costs.) Apparently, though, I am supposed to have ideas about colors, gown styles, music, food, cake, little people on top of cake, flowers, favors, and so on. (Which honestly, is there anything more ridiculous than a white folding chair with a giant ribbon tied to the back of it?)

Luckily, there are web sites to help me. (And by help me, I mean sell me stuff.) And there are free magazines to help me. (And by help me I mean sell me stuff.) I had to Google things like what an escort card is or what kinds of flowers grow in May.

But last night, I was doing some exploratory research on dresses: first, the bridesmaid fashion, and then … just to see … bridal gowns. At first it was strictly scientific. I noted the foreign terms assigned to the dresses. A-line, mermaid (!), trumpet, so I wouldn’t look so clueless when it comes time to head to a store. But then, I started to legitimately like a couple of them. For me, even. And a little feeling began to sprout. It was… excitement. Over a dress.

It was as if somewhere in my brain, a tiny Martha Stewart with a little bicycle pump was frantically distributing more of the girl-chemical that makes me glued to Project Runway even though I’m perfectly happy in jeans and an oversized hoodie every day. It was like when the Grinch’s miniscule heart grows three sizes that day and bursts out of the measuring device. Suddenly, I could do it. Suddenly, I could be a princess for a day even though my childhood hours were spent playing with Transformers instead of marrying off Ken and Barbie.

And there you have it. Still clueless, but more engaged.