When I was in my early 20s and far thinner than I am now, a cousin of mine asked me to be in her wedding as a bridesmaid. I’m sorry to say that because of distance and an unforgiving work schedule, I wasn’t a very good one, but I tried. All of my days off seemed to be used up for doctors’ appointments, and I couldn’t get to a bridal salon 8 hours away to be fitted for the rented gown. I ended up sending my measurements and hoping for the best.

The big day came with a frantic race from Chicago to Appalachia. I arrived twenty minutes before the bride was due to walk down the aisle and the other bridesmaids were already dressed. Someone tossed me a garment bag and I scuttled into the tiny bathroom to change.

From the moment I caught the bag, it felt like something wasn’t quite right. It felt too…bulky. I mean, it was thick polyester with sateen lining and plenty heavy to begin with, but it felt like there was too much there. I opened the bag and it seemed to be folded in quarters, vertically. Very odd. I gingerly unfolded it and shook it out. This dress was…not my size. I stepped into it and surplus material extended on either side by about two feet. I was genuinely surprised that it should be so much bigger because, even though I was fairly thin back then, I still had a short, round shape and was accustomed to adjusting to a larger size in bridal clothing. Those salons seem to always want to leave you feeling like a whale no matter what size you are.

I stepped cautiously out of the bathroom, clutching the dress around me like the Columbia Pictures lady, and asked if maybe there had been a mix-up. But no, everyone else had their dress on and I was the odd one out. The bridal salon was too far away to get a replacement, and on a weekend besides. What now?

They ended up having to pull and crisscross the loose fabric behind me, binding me in with a roll of duct tape someone had found in the church rec room. It looked terrible. I had a panel of stiff silver on the back, I looked like a walking royal-blue bolster pillow, and the thing was still sliding down, thanks to the weight and the slippery lining. The bride came to see what the holdup was and she was not happy to find me in such a state. Someone got the bright idea to yank a circular white tablecloth off a banquet table and fold it in half, wrapping it around me as a spectacularly unstylish shawl. The bride was doubly unhappy about that…no one else had tablecloth shawls…but at zero hour, what could we do?

I tottered into place and began to march down the aisle with the other bridesmaids, periodically stopping to hike up my dress as discreetly and gracefully as I dared. It was slipping off my shoulders, rapidly, into oblivion, and I could only keep it up by clenching my arms tightly to my sides. Thank goodness I wasn’t going to be the bridesmaid who had to reach out for the bride’s big bouquet while she said her vows!

As I walked, I heard strange crunching and tearing noises and my first fear was for the dress. Was I walking on the hem and pulling the gown down? I couldn’t feel a thing. I was all bulked and taped and for all I knew the contraption was down at my waist by now. Thankfully, a foot-wide gap opened up in the procession and I saw the source of the crunch and tear: it was a paper aisle runner, and trying to stick with the blue theme the bride had the flower girl tossing dark blue potpourri. With every step, we crunched and tore the aisle runner and left it in shreds. I felt bad that it was happening, but at the same time I was so relieved not to be losing the dress that I almost let loose with a fit of giggles. Step, crunch, rip. Step, crunch, rip.

I tried to do my bridesmaid best during the very long ceremony, which included my trying to keep the dress aloft as the bride and groom stared into one another’s eyes silently during a full country song. I was soaked in sweat and mortified by how I looked, certain I was singlehandedly ruining her day. After the ceremony, the bride told me she wanted her bridesmaids to stay in their gowns for the photos (understandable) and the reception (oh no!). In the photos, I was stripped of my tablecloth shawl and sent to the back, where I peeked in abject shame over my bouquet:

I couldn’t have done any dancing at the reception if I’d tried, so I spent a lot of time sitting by myself at a banquet table, fiddling idly with royal-blue favors and wishing like anything to get back into my comfy jeans and sweater. When it finally came time to peel off the duct tape and extricate myself, I was terrified that it would damage the dress, but we got it all off somehow.

Quite a day. “Too much dress” is a problem I wish I still had!

Cousin and Husband are still married and going strong.