One of the final steps in wedding prep is finding the perfect bustier to make sure your décolletage looks tasteful yet stunning. Yesterday, while shopping for undergarments, I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman except instead of a mid-level hooker, I looked like a “Biggest Loser” cast-off who wreaked of sunscreen and sweat. Better than body glitter, I guess.
I now know that it’s unwise to go directly from a run to La Perla on Madison Avenue. They don’t take kindly to your spandex, even if it is Lululemon. Like the film siren before me, I felt a certain sense of entitlement walking into the lingerie shops, despite how I was dressed. How did they know that I didn’t have a platinum AmX card tucked away in my fanny pack? But with one touch of my clammy back as they hooked up my corset, the truth came out — all I had to offer was a debit card and some crumpled up $1’s.
I’ve done everything in my power to resist being a glam bride-to-be. Initially, I’d dress the part by getting manicures before fittings and wear pearls. I even bought new cotton undies. Now in the lead-up, all the motions towards getting married have been stripped away of any niceties. It’s been strictly business.
Instead of bringing a bridesmaid along to watch me blush as she points to garter belts, I’ve been going alone to every lingerie store in Manhattan in search of a nude strapless push-up bra (sexy!) In a weak moment at Journelle, I asked the sales girl if they carried any underwear with “Bride” scripted on it. When she handed me a thong with “I do” bedazzled on the hip, I lied and said my “friend” preferred briefs and promptly left the store without anything that would remind my booty that it was getting hitched.
I’ve heard of brides who register at lingerie stores. I’d love to meet this specimen and have her genteel qualities rub off on me. How did she get so confident around underwire? Does all that lace make her itchy?
In a last ditch effort, I went to Nordstrom where Bernice, a matronly saleslady led me to a bra she promised would give me that “va va voom” look. Bernice then offered a wry smile, implying that she thought I was a naughty girl. When the strapless didn’t do as she assured me it would, I asked her if I could just wear those stick-on cups. “No!,” she squealed, in horror. “Those only work on women with perfect, fake boobs.” My puppies might not be “perfect.” A gal at Victoria’s Secret once told me they were slightly different sizes (I’ve since stopped shopping there), but I don’t exactly mourn for the perky breasts of my misspent youth. I’m only 28. As if to make up for offending me, Bernice then pried the Spanx out of my hands and insisted I didn’t need to wear them below my wedding dress. “Those don’t help anyway. The fat has to go somewhere, after all,” she said. I bought two pairs, just to spite her.
In the end, I’m left with a questionable bra, a dress that might fall down during “Shout,” a pair of flesh-toned tummy shapers and nothing to prove to my bridesmaid’s when they help me pee that I am a “Mrs!” I’m hoping the ceremony will be reminder enough.
Bride Gene 