One year my mother decided to up her game. She had discovered a nearby convent had a sewing ministry. She asked if she could donate her wedding dress to be used as fabric for an Easter chasuble for her brother. (Unsplash/Charisse Kenion)
Tucked away high on a shelf, out of mind and out of arm s reach, my wedding dress has maintained its clandestine existence for more than 30 years.
It made its one and only debut on a cold and dark December night. I had anguished over the process of finding it. I was never much for shopping and the idea of being turned on a revolving pedestal, while poked and perused by a gaggle of shopkeepers, made me feel both queasy and embarrassed. The price tag only heightened my discomfort. Although my father was happy to foot the bill, it felt like an inordinately expensive and frivolous purchase. Bridezilla I was not.