"Just lift your arms up and ... okay, dive in!"
She held the seemingly endless yards of flowing fabric above my head, with her arms through the middle to guide me to the top. The rustle and shuffle of silk and taffeta undulated by my ears until I had shimmied into the dress.
And I walked out to where my mother was waiting, the train of the dress following patiently.
"Oh, that's the one. That's it." My mother started clapping softly, then realized it was an odd thing to do, so she just folded her hands in her lap and grinned.
I turned to face the mirror and, despite the exhaustion from the whirlwind weekend and the day of working remotely and the strong scent of Starbucks coffee, I felt pretty. All in an instant, I didn't want to wait another seven months to be his bride.
"Oh, that's the one." My bridal consultant had patiently helped me try on over two dozen dresses and she showed no signs of slowing down. But this one was it. Hands on her hips, she followed the lines of my body with her eyes and nodded her approval. "It fits you perfectly."
I nodded in agreement. She leaned in to my mother.
"Let's get the pump and I'll get the seamstress, so we can see how we'll work with this."
My mother unearthed the pump from the depths of my purse, where it had been stashed during this dress-session, and handed it to me.
The seamstress came out and gave me a coo of approval. "Oh honey, you look beautiful. Now what are we looking at here?"
"This is my insulin pump. I need to have a pocket or something created in the dress so I can access the buttons here," I gestured to the front face of my pump, "and then the tubing needs to funnel through the dress layers to a port on my outer thigh."
"No problem, honey. No problem at all. Let's see this." She reached out her hand and I placed the pump on her palm. "Not too heavy at all. We make a little pocket along the seam here," she pointed to the side of the dress, "and then we'll just tunnel through the layers to meet up with your leg. A small bit of velcro to keep the pocket shut and viola! You're a bride with a beeper."
The seamstress patted me on the arm. My bridal consultant helped me slip out of the dress and I put my own skirt and shirt back on. I looked at some options for my bridesmaids and ooohed over dresses for my flower girl (little MP). We talked about when the dress would be ordered and how long it would take to come in.
And if I closed my eyes, I could still feel the weight of the train and the way the beading felt underneath my fingertips.
I can't wait until May.