This is not my wedding dress.

Before I went dress shopping, I made a mental list of the things I was looking for in a wedding dress:

1. Simple, elegant and not too flashy. No beads, please.
2. Something local, whether it be locally made or purchased in a locally-owned business.
3. Something that could either be worn again, or was simple (and affordable) enough that I wouldn't feel badly for not ever wearing it again.
4. No trains. Seriously. The aisle is going to be somewhat narrow and (possibly) flammable as we are considering luminaria/pyrotechnics. Email us if you have a license from the fire department and/or are interested in bringing the fireworks.
5. Something that I could eat and breathe in. The food is going to be awesome (check out the caterers, Simpatica). As for breathing, well, that's pretty self-explanatory.
6. Something off-white or un-white. As most of you know, I'm pretty pale, so I was thinking that looking pasty and washed out on the wedding day might not be the best idea. Down with tradition!
7. Something pretty.

The first outing was a fairly informal affair - just my mom and I running through a few dress shops on 23rd Avenue in between her flight into Portland and her train ride out of town (probably a total of two hours).

A few weekends later, Patrick, his parents, and I went suit shopping and, of course, went to the fancy-schmancy suit store first. Turns out that the fancy-schmancy designers are the only ones that make suits that fit Patrick's slight frame - or so he oh-so-conveniently claims - so he has a damn fine suit for the wedding. While we were at the suit store, I decided to venture upstairs to the women's department - just for fun, right? - and happened upon an absolutely stunning dress. One (I) might call it the perfect dress. My mom was coming up the following weekend to do a second run of dress shopping, so I put the dress on hold, Pat bought his suit, and we went home for the day.

I hate to admit it - and I swear I'm not normally so concerned with a piece of clothing - but I thought about the dress most of the week. I was still eating and sleeping, so I wouldn't say it was an obsession, though I may or may not have pestered Patrick with musings about it and may of may not have dreamt about wearing the dress.

The next Saturday, I took my mom, Patrick's mother, Karen, and my friends Kate and Eva, on a second dress shopping trip. We started off at Tres Fabu, a bridal shop that carries somewhat more modern bridal gowns. Walking into the store (a place that was filled with dresses that did not fit most, if not any, of my aforementioned criteria), I had what can only be described as a bridal stoke.

(A not-so-quick interjection here. During my summer job, I came across a monthly newsletter called the Porcelain Press featuring health-related information that one could peruse while using the office toilets. What a find. One month, the main headline read, "KNOW THE SYMPTOMS OF A STOKE!" Rather than being a description of the symptoms one might display when truly excited (i.e. stoked), the article instead outlined what to look for in a stroke victim. However, I found this glaring typo exceedingly amusing and proceeded to invoke the expression at every possible occasion. When Patrick and I went to Disneyland with our friends Macy and Ann, you can only imagine the number of stokes we witnessed and experienced. Truly amazing.)

But I digress. Though I had not expected to be remotely interested in the dresses and accessories that are found in a traditional bridal shop, I was suddenly pulling out dozens of dresses to be tucked and bustled into. I even looked, for a very brief moment, at the Just Married wedding flip-flops. So many to choose from. So very few occasions to wear them. I probably tried on a dozen dresses in that shop and many of them were surprisingly attractive. In fact, I very nearly purchased one. This dress went against almost everything that I had been looking for. It was white. It was not at all local (from Spain). While it was simple compared to other dresses I had tried on, it was still, very much, a bridal GOWN. It was definitely not something that could be worn again and I wouldn't call it "cheap." Finally, it had a simply enormous train. Cascading. Flowing. Fire-hazard.

We returned to the fancy-schmancy shop and I again tried on "the dress." I liked it as much as I had the first time, but after trying on the more traditional gowns, I suddenly felt very confused. The bridal gown, while not representing what I had been looking for, still drew me. People don't wear dresses like that anymore and part of me (the part that loves Jane Austen) is still attracted to the romance of being swaddled in yards of exquisite fabric on my wedding day. Still, most of me could not understand how such a dress would fit into the wedding I had been imagining since Patrick and I decided to get married. When it comes down to it, the bridal gown was beautiful, as all bridal gowns are beautiful, but the less traditional dress was as beautiful and probably (definitely) more "me."

That was that. I bought the dress and it is now sitting in our hall closet. Now that I have it, I may or may not spend long hours gazing at the dress. I may or may not have christened it, "my precious." I may or may not still have dreams about it. And soon, you will too.