Part three of four: The Plastic Bag Issue

So, where were we? Oh, yes, “Purple is ok here in Spain”

What do you think we did? What would have you done after such a sentence?
Exaclty, that’s right, I see you’re learning: another trip to Serravalle (the biiiiig outlet mall).
Sadly the dress I loved so much is super long and that’s not good, only the bride will have a long gown. I leave my heart there and go look for something else.
Mom finds a violet dress, all stripey and nice.
“Come on, try it on!”

And here’s where, a posteriori, I realize I’ve actually learned something useful from TV, to be specific from Randy of Say yes to the dress (I would have never believed such a thing): if you’re the one who’ll have to wear that dress, you’re the one who’ll have to love it.

I try the violet dress on, I feel like I’m a plastic bag, and it’s pulling on the hips… never had big hips before… but maybe I didn’t want to see.
But “oh noes, nonsense, what are you talking about, you look lovely, you look lovely, you look lovely”
Three times, like Beetlejuice. I buy it. The dress and that I look good (ok, actually dad pays for it, thanx again ^^)

So I go home, happy with a violet dress that doesn’t make me look like a briefcase.

What about dad, you’re wondering, what is he wearing?
He outsmarted us all: he’s renting a tux in Spain, where the groom is renting his too… and where I think all the best men will too.

Please put to memorandum that I’d have LOVED to wear a tux, and I’m going to say this too: I would have rocked it!!! But my family went maniac and imposed heels+skirt, they sounded something like this:
“WHATTHEHECKCRISTINAATLEASTFORYOURBROTHERSWEDDINGYOULLBEDRESSINGASALADYYOUREGOINGTOWEAR
ASKIRTANDHEELSFORADAYYOURENOTGOINGTODYWYOUDONTWANTHIMTOLOOKBAD”

Damn moral blackmail, it always works, always! -.-

But as time goes by I’m increasingly less into my dress, I try it on, with shoes, without, with stole, without, with clutch, without.
I look more and more like a plastic bag. With a huge bottom.
And I never had issues watching myself in a mirror, so this is quite unsettling to me.

At this point, as creative writing courses tell you, this is becoming too long, boring and stuck; we do have bags and shoes and anyway they’re not as important: find what you can and it’s comfortable. “As long as they are not those huge things you wear or combat boots, ok Cristina?” What? Do they really think I’d go to a wedding in my Birkenstocks? (Even though I’d be soooo comfy…).
As I was saying, this story is stuck.
Time to introduce a new character.

On the horizon a rider approaches on a grey horse, his armor shining in the sunset. It’s Sa, parking his car, roasted by heat and work.
But, even though he doesn’t know it, he’s here to save me, totally gone mode: “damsel in distress”.

The “Damsel in dss” mode consists of: affliction, left elbow on the desk, chin resting on the left hand, right hand restlessly scrolling that infamous website my aunts had found, puffing irregularly from a pout.

“Ok, allright now, just order one dress and be done with it, you’ll going to wear it anyway sooner or later, aren’t you? And you know what? It’ll be my present!”

Now I’m leaving you a moment to absorb these words in your very being.

I mean…
Can you grasp how huge this is?
Can you see why I’m giving thanx, everyday, to the Universe and Sa’s mom for giving him two sisters who forged him this way?

(continues…)

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