Fear and Clothing at the Altar : Wanted: One Dream Dress--Sans Bustle

I’m getting married later this year and I have to find a dress.

I thought the search would be fun--like “That Girl” Goes Shopping for a Bridal Gown.

But there are a few things I didn’t count on: I don’t live in happy-sitcom land, I don’t have a perky little nose and I’m not marrying Donald Hollinger.

Looked through any bride’s magazines lately? The current state of wedding dresses isn’t too pretty.

Or maybe it is too pretty.

Page after page of ads feature dresses so over-laced, over-beaded and over-ruffled that you can barely see the bride in all that froufrou. Barbie’s dream gown from hell.

Some come with trains longer than a Southern Pacific boxcar. Many are equipped with butt-enhancers: oversize bows, bustles and flowers over the rear. Like I want my butt to look as huge as possible on my wedding day.

I call these kinds of gowns “It’s My Day, Dammit!” dresses, as in, “It’s my day, dammit, and I’ll look like a fairy princess if I want to!”

Well, I don’t want to. I’m 33, and my desire to look like a fairy princess ended when I was 8 years old. Froufrou is not my style.

Besides, one of the first things my fiance said when we started talking about wedding details was: “I don’t want to wear a tuxedo.”

That was fine by me, since I didn’t want a formal ceremony, either. We’re keeping the wedding small--just immediate family--with a medium-sized reception after. I’m not even having attendants, which disappointed my sister, who was hoping to wear black leather as my maid of honor.

I had no idea where to begin my search. I knew I didn’t want one of those lace-and-sequin numbers, nor did I want a suit (too tailored). And I didn’t want to spend four figures--not uncommon for a wedding dress.

I had a vague idea of an ankle-length dress--simple but elegant, with a fitted bodice and a full skirt, no rhinestones, sequins or bugle beads.

I needed guidance, I needed inspiration, I needed a small miracle, I needed . . . the Magic Kingdom! What better place to find my fantasy wedding dress? I headed to the Disneyland Hotel for a weekend Bridal Expo.

I met a friend there, and for two hours we perused hundreds of booths featuring everything from soft-focus wedding photography to cakes decorated with blue flowers to super-stretch limos.

The dresses we saw were mostly the poly satin/beaded variety. A fashion show featured lots for Barbie, but nothing for me--it all looked like reruns from those bridal magazines.

We stopped at a booth offering rental gowns. Not a bad idea, but I’d worry about dresses infused with bad wedding vibes.

Things didn’t seem to be working out at Magic Kingdom adjacent, so we went on to Phase B: a shop called The Bride in Newport Beach, a by-appointment-only chichi bridal salon across from Fashion Island.

I felt as if I had stepped onto a movie set version of a bridal salon: kelly-green carpet, large dressing rooms, Queen Anne chairs, platforms on which to stand and huge mirrors.

I gave my name to the woman at the front desk, who called out over the P.A. system: “Dee, your bride is here!”

Given the decor, I expected some snooty saleswoman with major attitude. But Dee turned out to be sweet and motherly, apologized for running a bit late with another customer and asked if we would mind waiting for a few minutes. She asked me some details about my wedding and directed us to a rack of dresses encased in plastic garment bags.

A few seemed like possibilities; Dee pulled them out and showed me to a dressing room, then handed me a strapless long-line bra and a tulle underskirt.

The first dress I tried on was made of ivory silk chiffon, with short sleeves, a fitted, drop-waist bodice and a long, sweeping skirt. Chiffon roses bordered the neck. It was beautiful.

I stepped in front of the mirror and started laughing. Was this me ? In a bridal gown ? I looked so . . . Scarlett O’Hara-like. “Fiddle-dee-dee,” I said to myself, “everybody is talking about war, war, war.”

It felt as if I was having an out-of-body experience.

A succession of dresses followed, some better than others. A silk peau de soie number was done in a sheath style that made me look like the loser in a Mae West impersonator contest. Another had a bustle so huge you could fit a couple of small children underneath.

Dee was patient and honest; if something didn’t look quite right, she said so. We both liked a Carolina Herrera gown with a plain satin boat-neck bodice and a skirt made of layers of tulle edged with a white satin ribbon. She paired it with a pillbox hat and veil that fit the dress perfectly.

That was the least expensive of the lot, at about $2,000.

But even if I had $2,000 on me, I still couldn’t walk out of the salon with the dress. To my utter surprise, Dee explained that the dress was made to measure--meaning that my vital stats would be sent back to the factory and the dress made there. It might take five to six months to get the dress.

Dee wrote down the style numbers on a card in case I wanted to phone in an order. On the way out, she even gave me a hug.

Although it was early in the hunt, I began to have doubts that I’d find my dream dress. If I wanted to spend a moderate amount, would I have to settle for one of Barbie’s rejects? I could just hear my friends at the wedding. . . . “Gee, nice dress. It’s so . . . shiny!”

“This is the most important dress of your life,” said Bride’s magazine editor-in-chief Barbara Tober. Her words rang in my head and sweat popped out on my brow. She was right. I couldn’t think of another occasion where what I wore would be so monumental.

The pressure was on.

I took some comfort from the fact that even designer Vera Wang had a hard time finding a wedding dress when she got married four years ago. That’s what led her to do a bridal collection.

“You come in with your own sense of style, and as the bridal process goes on--getting the flowers, the invitations--you suddenly find yourself becoming a bride in spite of yourself,” she said. “Whereas I would never wear a ruffle, I was suddenly running around throwing roses on my head. It is just so weird.

“The dress symbolizes so much. It is your ‘Queen for a Day’ day. You want to be your personal best.”

Maybe some part of me wants to be Queen for a Day. Definitely That Girl for a Day. All right, a grown-up Fairy Princess.

So it’s back to the bridal trenches. Somewhere out there, there’s a dress with my name on it. And it doesn’t have a bustle.