The Dress Shop

I call the chit chatting man from the dress shop, Little Italy. And Little Italy calls me the Bandaged Hand Bride, the "I don't want my wedding to be a bother" Bride and the Beat Red Blushing Bride.



Mom and I stand gazing, dazed and confused, at a rack of wedding gowns while Little Italy zips up and down gathering fabric. Then he calls us into the dressing room where, draped down and wrapped up, are eight gowns. Mom and I begin our first dance around the dressing room. I need help dressing and undressing in and out of all eight. "Oh relax, Rachel! My eyes are closed." Mom whispers, squinting her eyes half open as she holds the next dress toward my bare chest. But there's no need for modesty with Mom and so I strip to speed the process. Though, even with our eyes open, we still trip on the trains.
And when I try to look natural in eighty pounds of white satin lace, we can only giggle and giggle until the fabric falls off, until we unzip another garment bag, and until we unbutton and untie another dress.
I decide on the first one and Little Italy pulls the bodice ribbon tight and ties my breath up in a knot.



Later on, my mother and I walk down the narrow carpeted steps of the dress shop, giddy, and I do not stop talking all day.