Every time I open my closet, it’s right there, hanging on the inside of the door. And I have the same debate. On the one hand, it’s really not dressy enough. People will look at me and wonder why on earth I’m not wearing something more suitable. On the other hand, it’s pretty, it has pockets for Kleenex, it’s comfortable, and anyway, everyone will be wearing all sorts of things. “But ‘everyone’ is not the grandmother of the bride,” I hear the dress say.
I am thrilled that my oldest grandchild is getting married in Austin on April 30 and so moved that she and her fiancé want the grandparents to walk down the aisle. It’s just—the dress.
A few months ago I went to my closet, knowing before I opened the door that I would find nothing appropriate there. It’s definitely not a California closet so I had to rummage through a jumble of clothes from different seasons of antiquity. The pandemic aside, it’s been a long time since I have been to anything that required wearing something designed by someone other than Mr. L.L Bean. The only thing I found that could be remotely possible was a long, sleeveless dress I had worn to chaperone a high school prom at least 40 years ago. I wasn’t about to face the humiliation in store if I tried it on, so, obedient to some old dictum running in my head, I was happy to eliminate it on the basis of its being black—black with lots of white, but still.
I put my head in the sand, emerging only to suffer from periodic panic when someone would ask the dreaded question, “What are you wearing to the wedding?”
A few weeks ago a good friend said she wanted to take me shopping to buy a dress. One of her friends had done that for her, and she was passing it forward—or sideways. Simultaneously grateful and reluctant, I agreed to the excursion. Going shopping has always been one of my least favorite things to do—unless it’s at a bookstore or a nursery—and shopping when you’re desperate is the worst.
After a couple of stops that reaffirmed the reasons I hate clothes shopping and heightened my anxiety, we ended up at a boutique in Cambridge. I tried on two fancy dresses, both of which looked way better on the hanger than on me. An older gentleman was waiting on me and his comment confirmed my judgment: “Of course, you’ll be buying some Sunday underwear for whatever you choose.” The only dress that felt like me did not meet my definition of “dressy,” but my friend and the salesman said it looked really nice and was fine for a wedding—especially in Texas.
“Now some shoes,” said the salesman as we both looked down at my Uggs (a silly show of resistance to this whole undertaking), “and nice jewelry, and you’re all set. You must have those at home.” I mumbled something incoherent as I thought of the possibilities. My inherited “jewels” consist of a rhinestone necklace and earrings and some garish costume jewelry my mother must have worn in the 1930s. More recent acquisitions are an assortment of beaded bracelets created by granddaughters over the years and necklaces I bought to support a crafty friend. Lovely, but they’d hardly dress up the dress.
Back home, I confirmed that my shoe collection is even more deplorable than my jewelry. I checked out a pair of blue, low-heeled shoes but they looked like I was off to a career, not a wedding. The strap on a pair of white sandals was broken, and trying on black pumps I felt like Cinderella’s stepsister. Why is it my feet keep growing while the rest of me shrinks down?
Now, as the window of time grows smaller, I hear the dress complaining, “So when are you getting me some fancy shoes, a dressy necklace, and Sunday underwear? I don’t want you humiliating me.”
