Saying ‘Yes’ to the dress
Bridesmaid dress fitting never quite goes to plan
‘Keep the 18th of November free for bridesmaid dress shopping,’ my sister tells me in June. ‘It’s been a nightmare trying to get everyone together on the same day.’
I write it in my diary. ‘Something to look forward to,’ I say, thinking how lovely being a bridesmaid will be.
Summer comes and goes. We move into autumn, and the day of the all-important dress shop gets closer. I should be excited. But I can’t ignore the niggling feeling in the back of my mind.
My worry is not about the wedding or my sister or the man she’s marrying, it’s about the dress fitting process. My past experiences have not been positive.
2010
‘You’re a funny shape,’ the dress shop owner tells me. ‘There’s nothing here.’ She points to my chest and waist. ‘But lots here.’ She opens her arms wide and lowers them to my hips.
I stand in front of her in the changing room, wearing nothing but my underwear, feeling shame rising from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
She looks me up and down, her glasses sliding to the end of her nose, a tape measure draped around her neck. ‘I’ll take those measurements again. Just to be sure.’
She shakes her head. ‘They were right the first time.’
I stare at myself in the mirror. My upper body is tiny; my lower body requires its own postcode.
‘Such a funny shape,’ she says again. ‘But don’t worry, our seamstress can work wonders. She’ll get it to fit.’
The bridesmaid dress is beautiful—strapless, fitted to the waist, and A-line to the calf in a delicate blue. But given the size needed to cover my ample backside, there’s too much material on top. It needs some adjustment.
When I return for the final fitting, the dress is so tight, she struggles to zip me into it.
‘It needs to be snug,’ she tells me. ‘Otherwise, it will fall down.’ She points to my chest. ‘You have nothing to hold it up.’
With the zip fully up, I struggle to breathe.
‘It will give a little,’ she says as she sends me on my way. ‘But make sure you don’t put any weight on.’
This sounds simple, but the wedding is in Cyprus. Before the big day, I have a full week staying in an all-inclusive hotel. That’s seven days and seven nights avoiding the delights of the all-inclusive buffet, just so I can squeeze into my dress.
I show willpower of steel, sidestepping the puddings and embracing the salads. And, even then, the dress is rib-crushingly tight.
It is the only dress I have ever worn that hurts me. At the end of the night, my ribs ache so much, I worry there’s been lasting damage.
2012
I am excited to be a bridesmaid again. And this time, instead of going into a shop and being measured, they ask me to take my own measurements so they can order the dress online.
This is much less of an ordeal.
I do as I am asked, realising that my hips are very much out of proportion to my waist and chest. Feeling optimistic that I can lose some of the weight from my lower half, I knock off an inch and a bit, maybe two, alright three.
The new measurements seem much more normal. And I am committed to slimming down. It will all be fine.
Except that six months later when the dresses arrive, I’ve put on a stone.
The dress is beautiful, (a long, dark blue off the shoulder number) but no matter how hard I try to force myself into it, I can’t.
Feeling that familiar sense of shame, I call my friend and explain. She is very understanding and calls in an emergency seamstress who unpicks the dress, adds some material, and remakes it around my funny shaped hips.
Given my bridesmaid dress history, it’s understandable that I’m a little anxious for my sister’s wedding. I tell myself this time will be different. Since I was last a bridesmaid, there’s been a body positivity movement. Things have moved on, attitudes have changed.
Unlike when I grew up in the nineties, there’s no longer a pressure to look a certain way (thin, thin or thinner); society is embracing all shapes and sizes. For all I know, the flat chest and big bottom could now be the in thing. ‘It will be fine,’ I tell myself. There will be a million dresses to suit my shape; no one will pass judgement on my body and find it wanting.
There will be no dieting. There will be no stress. It will all be perfect.
I meet my sister, mum, niece, and the other bridesmaids on a chilly November morning. Everyone is in high spirits, excited for a day of trying on dresses. I smile and laugh and go along with the happy vibe, ignoring the voice in my head reminding me of bridesmaid dress fittings past.
The shop owner welcomes us, sits us down and makes us all a drink. This is nothing like last time. It’s going to be a good day.
‘Do you know about the dresses?’ she asks, smiling brightly.
‘No,’ we say.
“It’s a new range that allows the bride and bridesmaids to bring creativity to their choice of outfit. There are 310 combinations.’ She pauses. ‘Different skirts and bodices, beading and colours. We don’t stock them all, so all you need is…vision.’
My heart sinks. Vision is not my strong point. Unlike my sister, mum and niece, I have no idea what goes with what. I just throw my outfits together and hope for the best.
I lean forward, listening as hard as I can.
‘I’ll start with the skirts,’ she says. “There are long and short and calf length and tulle and full tulle and…” On she goes, pulling out at least 20 skirt options.
‘Is that clear?’ she asks.
Everyone except me nods.
‘Can you go through that again?’ I ask. And she does, but faster this time.
‘Got it?’ she asks.
‘Got it,’ I say, hoping she doesn’t test me.
‘Then come the bodice options.’ And she runs around the shop, pulling out more choices. Sleeves, one shoulder, strapless, sweetheart, cowl, V-neck, open back, scoop neck... Next are the colour options and, finally, the beading.
I sit in the corner, still trying to get my head around the skirt options. I take a sip of my tea, hoping that at some point, it will all become clear.
The woman is smiling, happy, and incredibly passionate about the range. She claps her hands together. ‘Now for the fun bit.’
‘Biscuits,’ I think.
‘The trying on!’
My sister jumps up and starts picking out this skirt and that bodice in this colour and that colour with this beading and that beading.
‘What do you think?’ She turns to me as a little sister to a big sister, wanting some guidance.
‘Beautiful,’ I say. ‘All 310 of them.’
Thankfully, Olivia, my 11-year-old niece, has it all figured out. She knows exactly which dress she wants, tells the stylist, and they both disappear into the changing room.
She emerges looking like a Disney princess. Cue lots of oohing and aahing as she stands on the raised platform, taking in the dress from all angles.
‘Perfect,’ I tell her.
While the stylist takes her measurements, I look around, wondering if there’s any chance of another cup of tea.
One of the other bridesmaids, who was also a bridesmaid with me back in 2010, sits next to me. ‘Do you remember our dresses last time, Liz?’
‘We couldn’t breathe,’ she tells the others. ‘They were so tight.’
‘My ribs have never been the same since,’ I say. ‘They’re not level—one side was crushed more than the other.’
‘This time, I’m going for comfort,’ she says.
I nod in agreement. ‘I want to enjoy my dinner.’ It might be a long time ago, but I’m still annoyed at the all-inclusive desserts I missed out on.
After Olivia, the other bridesmaids create their gowns, looking absolutely amazing. And then it’s my turn.
Having watched and waited, trying to work out the skirt and top combinations, I should be an expert by now, capable of running the shop or at least working here on a Saturday. But I am still clueless.
The others had attempted to learn the dress names, the Helga with the Olga via the Georgia skirt, but I just point.
‘That skirt, with that bodice, in that colour, please.’
The stylist looks at me like I’m from another plant. ‘That’s not an option with the full tulle.’
‘Oh, okay.’ I take a breath. ‘Remind me, what’s the full tulle?’
She holds it up. ‘It’s a bit sticky outie on the hips,’ she says. ‘You could try the Hilda with the tulle, not the full tulle.’
‘Great,’ I say.
In the changing room, I take off my loose-fitting jumper dress (M&S five seasons ago) and stand in my underwear, waiting for instructions.
‘Stand like superman with your arms out,’ the stylist says.
I lift my arms like I’m about to fly away, and she drops the dress over my head. Then I have my ta-dah moment as I step out.
‘You look like Elsa from Frozen,’ my sister says.
I smile and twirl on the platform, feeling wonderful.
‘You should try on another style, Auntie Liz,’ Olivia says. ‘To compare.’
I do, and it’s lovely, but nowhere near as lovely as the first. I look at myself in the mirror and feel so relieved that this bridesmaid’s dress fitting has been nothing like the others.
But then, the voice of doom.
‘Liz, we haven’t done your measurements yet.’
I retreat into the changing room with the stylist and her measuring tape.
‘What size are you usually?’
‘Small top,’ I say. ‘Bigger here.’ I wave my arm in the area of my hips.
Her eyes move from my waist to my chest. ‘I think you’ll be the same size as Olivia.’
That can’t be right. How can I have the chest of an 11-year-old girl? I’m a grown woman. Well, a woman.
She pulls the tape around my chest.
‘You made the right decision with the style,’ she says. ‘You looked too skinny in the second one.’
If she’d said that to me back in the nineties, I would probably have been happy about it. But now, aged 44, it makes me miserable. I’m not too skinny. I’m a healthy weight. It’s just my body shape. I can’t help that all the fat goes to my backside and not my boobs.
I come out of the changing room and take a seat, the sizing swirling in my mind, and it’s only as we’re about to leave that I remember to ask about length. After a lifetime struggling to get jeans and trousers long enough, I have to ask.
She looks me up and down. ‘How tall are you?’
I tell her. ‘And I’ll be in heels.’
‘You’ll need the longer length.’
‘It’s a good job you mentioned the length,’ mum says afterwards when we’re in the café across the road having our post-dress analysis.
‘Otherwise, mine would have been knee length.’ I laugh, pleased with how well it’s all gone.
‘Did she measure your hips?’ Mum asks.
My heart hammers against my wonky ribs. ‘No!’
Everyone looks at me, not understanding the scale of the problem.
‘It’s okay,’ my sister says. ‘She didn’t measure anyone else’s. They make the dresses in proportion to the chest and waist measurements.’
I gasp. What kind of messed-up world is this?
I have a long body, a low waist and a massive arse. Someone needs to measure me. I remember the woman back in 2010, telling me I was a funny shape. Nothing about me is in proportion.
I try to stay calm. I don’t want to worry my sister. Organising a wedding is stressful enough without having to fret about a big-bottomed bridesmaid. But they’ve ordered me the same size as Olivia. When I’ve been on the chocolate and cheese at Christmas, there’s no way I’ll be able to fit into it.
For the first time in a long time, I’m fretting about maintaining my weight. I thought those days had gone. Apparently not when it comes to weddings. Once the dress is ordered, you have to get into it and therein lies the pressure.
I tell myself that somehow it will all come together. If the worst comes to the worst, we can call in an emergency seamstress or, failing that, remove a couple of my ribs.
We’ve got time. The dresses don’t arrive until March. The wedding is in July. We don’t have to panic. Not yet, anyway.
Bridal dress shopping is mad, isn't it? I'm sure, though, it'll work out. It always does somehow.
Your story vividly reminded me of my first go at being a bridesmaid at 17. Someone felt it necessary to make a catty comment about my body, and I thought about it for years even though I found it wasn't true. I'd love to go back in time and tell people off for making me and everyone feel self-conscious for having a body.
Wow, you could almost flesh this out into a book!
I am now desperate to know if the dress fits! 😂😂😂