This Is What Happened When I Did Errands Around NYC In My Wedding Dress
When I met my wedding dress, it wasn't exactly love at first sight.
It was hanging limply in a sad sack competing for attention with no less than 300 other gowns that also didn't care if they ever made it out of the warehouse. For too many weeks, I made a big, awkward show of trying on ungodly amounts of lace at stuffy ateliers in Manhattan. I stumbled onto sales floor after sales floor, sucking in my burrito baby as strangers gawked at me so my mom could check "dress shopping with first of kin" off her bucket list.
My mom was a hairdresser, and I grew up watching her coif countless brides — brides who were always unglued, regardless of how many mimosas they'd chugged the morning of their big day. I swore that if I ever got married, I wouldn't put so much pressure on the details. I flirted with wearing a white party cardi, and calling it a day, but, in the end, I got caught up in the circus, mostly out of fear of missing out on the experience that bridal mags tell you that you're supposed to have. If I was committing to my husband, I might as well commit to a boob-smooshing garment I'd be wearing for max 12 hours, too.
But choosing the dress needed to be on my own terms, and when it came time to pull the trigger on a purchase, I knew it had to happen alone – on my lunch break – without a coterie of girls selected based on their ability to dote on cue and kindly associates binder-clipping my back bacon into sample sizes.
Left to my own devices at what looked like a Filene's Basement (RIP), I found a suitable option. It was lightweight enough to inevitably be stuffed back into its sad sack en route to my destination wedding in the Dominican Republic. Plus, it wasn't such a fortune that I'd flip if someone spilled frosé on it. Add some non-functioning silk covered buttons and a bespoke pink sash, and boom. I was sold.
Come the big day, the stress of dress and strapless bra shopping, coupled with last-minute alteration panic after I accidentally juice-cleansed myself down a cup size, was a distant memory.
On the Dominican shores, with my new husband (and some indigenous onlookers) by my side, I was at peak bliss. I didn't care about the bustle that broke five minutes into a Pit Bull medley, forcing me to MacGyver the train up with a hair tie. Or the rain that left me drenched down to the bejeweled "BRIDE" undies my b-maids convinced me to wear, in case I forgot who I was that day.
All that mattered was how giddy I was to be celebrating. That night, covered in sand, and probably some cheese, my dress went back into its sack, never to be thought of again…
Until four years later, when I was asked If I'd be willing to wear the filthy frock around NYC for an article. Nervous that it would smell like old beach – OK, actually nervous that it wouldn't fit anymore because I started hitting carbs hard right after my vows – I said yes to the dress again.
Having a destination wedding means that you're signing up for a host of things you're not allowed to care about – namely the food, flowers, photographer – pretty much anything that would be in your control if it wasn't in the hands of someone 1,500 miles away. I shipped off my Pinterest vision board to the wedding planner who had a 2% email open rate, told the makeup artist in my high school Spanish that I prefer a "natural" look (luckily the same word in both languages), and had no qualms about pulling my hair totally down when my half pony was more My Little Pony.
I even laughed every time the photographer referred to my male bridesmaid as my flower girl (sorry, Andrew) while insisting on him coquettishly biting into my bouquet.
And I just rolled with his vision to turn my crew into a bunch of sea widows, wistfully watching for ghost boats to return. (Seriously, what is happening here?)
The morning after the nuptials, when Mikey from Photo Souvenir gave us a CD of memories in exchange for a wad of cash, my fears were confirmed: All the pics looked like a poster for a Judd Apatow rom-com in which hilarity ensues after the bride drinks Dominican faucet water.
But this day would be different. (That's me typing those very words below.)
Before I put my dress back on, I enlisted the help of a bride tribe, Matt Jenks and Jordan Sawyer (two kindly makeup artists I paid in Munchkins) to get me ready for a typical day of leisure — just one that would involve a camera following me.
Fortified on Dunkin Donuts Munchkins and bolstered by my ninja photog, Kathryn, who could make even the most neurotic fake bride feel comfortable, I left my apartment determined to act natural wearing three layers of crinoline in 90-degree heat.
The day more or less went as expected.
I got stuck in a revolving door.
Strangers glared while I bought coffee.
Some tourists took photos of me.
And I took photos of tourists.
Other people said congrats as I crossed the street, which made me feel like a garbage person (it's not bad karma if you're already married, right?)
One salty broad applauded me for still being able to fit in the garb, then rescinded the compliment after she learned I've never had a baby.
I wrote my innermost profound thoughts down in a paper notebook.
And casually read a magazine.
People (and pets) seemed to warm to the weird girl in the wedding dress. Like seeing a bride in the wild brought them good luck.
Except maybe for this guy. He wasn't particularly impressed by me.
I felt like the dress gave me license to be bold — as if I were wearing a magic cape that enabled me to do anything I wanted. Like take unsanctioned shortcuts.
Or flirt with New York's finest.
I let Washington Square Park resident, Larry the Pigeon Man, put seeds in my hands so I could feed his friends, knowing that bird germs couldn't hurt me as long as I was in my protective lace cloak.
You haven't lived until two famished sky rats nibble lunch off of your fingers.
Empowered by my bridal halo, I even cooled off in the fountain that doubles as a recycling bin for Colt 45 cans and contraceptives.
There, a lovely woman offered me an orange slice and jumped in with me just to hold up my muddied train after she watched me struggle.
Do brides bring people together?
I was beginning to think so when a German tourist asked for my pigeon hand in marriage.
High off of the proposal and feeling refreshed post slime water dip, I decided to treat myself to an ice cream cone.
I'd already squeegeed into the gown so calories no longer mattered. And, sprinkle stains were clearly no longer cause for concern (please remember the pigeons).
Later, I sauntered into my local grocer to pick up the essentials – some dairy products and peonies – essentially my wedding diet.
No one seemed to think it peculiar that I was perusing in couture (fine, off the rack), but that's New York City for you. A chivalrous man with a mop cleared the way to the Pirate Booty aisle for me, but, otherwise, it was business as usual.
Same went for my stop at the corner party store, where I grabbed some balloons for my husband's upcoming birthday.
Every year, we surprise each other with a decorative display at home. Unfortunately, I ended up running into him outside our apartment, before I could complete the setup, but he didn't seem to mind.
For the first time that day, I felt totally at peace (well, second time, because ice cream). Seeing my husband reminded me why I bought into the tradition of wearing this silly old dress in the first place – because I had found someone worthy of the pomp and circumstance. And while a prettily dressed bride might bring people together, the only person I really cared about was my groom — even if he wouldn't hold my hand because it still had some sprinkles stuck to it.
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