OHMYGOD, I own a wedding dress.
A wedding dress.
THE wedding dress.
The wedding dress of ALL wedding dresses.
MY DREAM WEDDING DRESS.
And I'd likely tell you all about it, but The Fiance, well he (occasionally, when I make him) reads this blog, and he has banned me from simply uttering the word "dress" in his presence because, holy cow, he might, through telepathic osmosis, figure out what it looks like, and it will ruin the entire day. Year. Wedding. All ruined. If he hears the word "dress."
So from here on out, we'll call it "FANTASTIC."
So it's fantastic. And I tried on a total of three "fantastics," but neither of the others were nearly as fantastic as "fantastic," and that's just fantastic. It fit like a glove. It loved me. I loved it back. We are in love. And Mom cried. All in all a successful "fantastic" shopping day.
And I have shoes, and a veil, and a slip, and a bra and a bag (all of which cost lots of money, mind you. And they charge for a bag. A bag. To store the dress. They charge you. I'm sure). And I'm so happy, what with a wedding dress and air-conditioning and (come on, give me something else to be happy about) all, that I almost forget I'm supposed to be a crabby slob who wants nothing more than to quit life and live in the trees. Or something.