When We Shopped for a Dress, My Daughter's Wedding Seemed Like a Dream — Now, We're All on Hold
I’d been expecting the call. Still, when my daughter Jeanie recently let us know that she and her fiancé Andrew had decided to call off the wedding, my heart sank. They were to be married in Seattle on Labor Day weekend — a big, festive event of family and friends.
To be clear, the wedding is postponed, not canceled. The wedding planner told them it wasn’t realistic to set a new date before 2021. The decision was sensible given the unpredictability of the COVID-19 pandemic.
And yet. She has the dress. We went bridal dress shopping in New York City, when Jeanie was last home for the Christmas holidays. (Of course, we didn’t know then that this would be the last time we’d be together for who knows how long?) As usual, Manhattan had a gridlock alert, so we took the commuter rail from the suburbs into the city. When we emerged from Grand Central, the weather was cold and clear. The sidewalks were as packed as the streets.
Her first appointment was at an upscale department store, and the two of us briskly threaded our way through slow-moving tourists as we walked up to 58th Street and over to Fifth. I’d never have dreamed of shopping there, but Jeanie’s college friend Meredith had made the reservation. Meredith works in fashion; she’s an elegant girl, long, tall, and dark-haired, and dating a handsome Italian guy from her company. We met her on the corner, hugs all around, and then made our way into the iconic store.
The bridal shop is tucked far in the back of store on an upper floor, past a warren of tiny boutiques. These, too, were packed, this time with hawk-eyed New Yorkers, who quickly assessed tiny cloisonné boxes and crystal picture frames that were now 50 percent off. We were shown to a spacious dressing room, where a little platform stood before a tryptic of mirrors. Jeanie’s high school friend Sari arrived breathless to join our shopping party. Sari is somewhat androgynous; she’s tiny, with short, cropped curly hair and was clad in an army jacket. Both friends wore boots: Meredith’s were sleek, high heeled and butter-soft leather; Sari’s were scuffed combat boots.
As my beautiful Jeanie slipped one white gown over her head after another, preening in the mirror as her audience snapped photos on our phones, it felt as if she was playing dress-up. The weary-looking sales associate carried one dress in after another. She seemed to sense this was more of an exercise than an actual shopping trip. One dress was prettier than the next, and not a one had a price tag.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the mirrors. God, I looked dowdy, with my bulky grey sweater, frizzy hair, and glasses. And there, radiant, bubbling with happiness was my daughter, the one who never wanted to get married, and then conceded that if she did get married, there would be no wedding, that she’d never buy into the “wedding industrial complex,” that marriage shouldn’t be a production, and that City hall would suit her fine. “If I get married,” she’d say, always towards me.
Now she giggled as the saleswoman placed a variety of veils and tiaras on her head. One gown sparkled brighter than the more than the one before. Hardly the modest bride, Jeanie would stare at her reflection and say, “I look amazing!”
We had a second appointment at a boutique wedding shop in Tribeca. On the subway downtown I turned to Sari hanging on to the pole next to me.
“Did you ever think you’d see Jeanie buying into all this?”
“They all do,” Sari said matter-of-factly. “My sister was the same. They all get sucked in. They say they don’t want a big wedding, and then this happens.”
We got downtown a little early and went to a bar. Cocktails at 3:30 in the afternoon! Oh these girls! The bar was upstairs and not yet crowded. The tables were sticky and the ladies room down some rickety stairs, dimly lit, and felt like the size of a postage stamp.
The vibe of the second bridal shop was very different than the first. Music was playing, the space was airy. The fancy department store, I realize, was old and tired. This place had chargers for iPhones in the waiting area. Our sales associate was a jolly girl from the Midwest, who promised she “knew exactly” what Jeanie wanted. Soon more dresses were being slipped over my daughter’s head again. She practiced walking in borrowed heels, learning to give a subtle little kick with each step to make sure she didn’t trip over the billowing material. Oh, my daughter’s backside, with lovely cloth buttons outlining her spine and butt. A strapless dress. A dress that was cut too low, at least in my opinion. Meredith thought it elegant. An elegant lacy one. Sari had to take off — more hugs.
It was late now, and Jeanie had written down some style numbers. This boutique actually had a sister store in Seattle, so Jeanie could do fittings there. We all hugged the sales associate, then Jeanie and I said goodbye to Meredith — more hugs and kisses all around — and hopped back on a subway. We were starving when we got to Grand Central, and ran to buy curry noodles that we could eat on the train. It was a crazy choice for train food; we both made a mess, with hot sauce all over our laps. At least we were able to grab seats that no one had to share with us.
We got out at our suburban station to a cold, clear night, stars pinpointing the sky. We drove home to find the boys (my husband and son) lounging in front of a fire in the living room, empty plates with crumbs from the chocolate Christmas cake on the table. Jeanie and I quickly changed into pajamas and joined them.
Jeanie returned to Seattle and I’d get snippets of wedding progress. She’d hired a wedding planner. The list was growing. And growing. It was more than 200 names long. They visited vineyards and converted warehouses and even a naval base that have been converted to a party space, and finally chose their venue: The Seattle Art Museum. The venue dictated the date and how big the guest list could be. Jeanie found a wedding dress she loved out in Seattle — one far simpler than all the fairy princess types she’d played dress up with in New York. Jeanie and Andrew sampled menus and chose a caterer. The photographer was engaged. The Save-the-Date emails were sent.
And then the virus. Jeanie and Andrew were under stay-at-home orders in Seattle even before we were in New York. But it was March. September was far away.
You know the rest.
Jeanie put on a brave front on the phone, remembering others are dealing with far worse. Of course, she’s right. People can’t be with the people they love as they die, people are hungry, broke, terrified. Her fancy wedding is postponed. It’s not a tragedy.
Jeanie just turned 35. My daughter. Our daughter. I so wanted this for her. And for me. And for all of us. But in the end, we’ve come full circle. The pandemic has given us an (admittedly unwelcome) chance to reassess our values. Maybe we don’t need the big event after all. The “wedding industrial complex” as Jeanie first called it, has again taken a backseat.
In Andrew, my daughter found the person she loves and wants to spend the rest of her life with. Whether they get married in front of a crowd and dance the night away, or pledge their commitment in front of a judge at City Hall and go home, it’s the joy of their marriage that’s important.
And we’ll celebrate that joy — in whatever form it takes — when we’re able to be together again.
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