What girl doesn’t dream of the day she slips into her wedding dress, secures a veil in her hair, and walks down the aisle to join with her “until death do us part” person?
I remember in my adolescent years, getting into bed at night and reciting my prayers. Always in the same order. First came the Catholic prayers: an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Act of Contrition. Next up was the widely popular “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer, and finally, I got to the good stuff – the things that were important to a young girl: “Please God, let me get married someday and let me know what it’s like to be a mother. And well, if you could, let him be really good looking.” Sure, I felt sheepish and selfish adding that last part, but a girl’s gotta dream, and it doesn’t hurt to ask.
My prayers were answered sooner than expected when I met my future husband at the ripe old age of 15. We were high school sweethearts. He was two years older than me. I celebrated my Sweet 16 birthday with him, complete with a dozen red roses and a red Camaro model car he had already assembled for me. Camaros were considered the “cool car” back then, especially if you were lucky enough to have an 8-track player in it. It was a sweet gesture on his part.
By the time I was 19, we were engaged. I wasn’t old enough to legally toast to our future with champagne, but I was ready to walk down the aisle – a baby bride by today’s standards, but I knew what I wanted, and this was it.
My brother and his fiance become engaged before us, and I was invited to go wedding dress shopping with my future sister-in-law and her mother. Knowing my turn was coming soon, I excitedly browsed the racks of wedding gowns. Only one dress got me excited enough to pull down from the rack. It was the one. I asked the sales lady to write down the name on a card for me and waited patiently until it was my time to shine.
I’d forgotten my role was that of supporting cast that day. I was there with my future sister-in-law, not to hijack the bridal spotlight. My day would come.
Once I had a ring on my finger, Mom and I headed back to that store, crossing our fingers that the dress was still in stock. To my sheer delight, the dress was still there, waiting for me. I tried it on. No second guessing. No trying on any other dresses. Not one. I can still envision that dress hanging from a ceiling hook in the back bedroom of our house, its long train nearly touching the floor. The alterations had been made, and the big day was only days away. I couldn’t wait.
Typically, after a few weeks/months have elapsed since the big day, brides have their dresses dry-cleaned and professionally packed away, a relic to be admired by future generations, or at least preserved. Not me. It just wasn’t something I ever got around to doing.
As my daughter’s unique personality blossomed and her sense of style emerged, it became abundantly clear that my wedding dress would remain a relic only I would cherish, rather than a fashion statement for her. As for my granddaughter, I can imagine the scenario happening something like this: “Umm, yeah, that’s a no for me. But love you, Grandma,” as she starts scrolling through her phone, messaging her friends – “OMG guys, you’re not going to believe what my Grandma just showed me…”
Our marriage lasted 27 years (32 if you count the years we dated). He was, as I’d prayed for, a very good-looking man who loved children, and we were blessed to become the parents of three amazing kids who grew to become kind and successful adults. While none of us go into a marriage thinking divorce is a possibility, sometimes life throws a curve ball.
Moving on with my life, the dress came with me. It probably would have been the right time to toss it, but I just couldn’t depart with it. It no longer held a place of honor in my closet, though. Instead, it hung in our machine shed, unprotected for the next 17 years. There it was, out in the open, collecting dust, and the lace a perfect trap for cobwebs and dead bugs. Not wanting to give my new husband the idea I just couldn’t part with it, it seemed more acceptable to let it continue to hang there.
Fast forward to the great shed cleanout. By this time, my beloved dress was a sorry sight. Friends helping us with the cleanout, unceremoniously and in the blink of an eye, tossed my dress into a garbage bin. They didn’t even ask if I wanted to keep it. Luckily, I spotted it and rescued it from its grim fate.
Determined to give it new life and because I had nothing to lose at this point, I decided to throw it in the washing machine. I selected the gentle cycle, fearful the lace would crumble from all the years of exposure to the elements. The water turned brown as the drum tumbled, knowing a second cycle was definitely going to be in order. I didn’t know what I would find when the spin cycle was complete. I was amazed, as the dress emerged from the washer nearly as white and lovely as the day I wore it 45 years earlier.
I hung it to air dry, and as the wrinkles settled in, I couldn’t help but smile. They felt familiar, like the gentle creases time has etched into me too.
Now what? Naturally, I did what any woman in my shoes would do. I tried it on! Despite the ever so faint ripping sound as it made its way over my hips, I slid my arms into the long sleeves and stood staring in the mirror. I had goosebumps as a flood of emotions welled up inside me.
This dress represented a chapter of my life and a piece of my identity. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of nostalgia, joy, and the bittersweet longing for the innocence and hope of that young bride. For a moment, the years seem to dissolve, and I was once again that young, feisty woman who knew what she wanted and went after it.
As the reality of just how many years had come to pass since I walked down the aisle in that dress, a quiet ache formed, not for what was lost, but for all the living that had been done. The years had flown by. Every joy and every struggle had etched itself into the lines of my face and the contours of my heart. The tears welling up in my eyes carried the weight of both a love lost and the deep gratitude for a life well lived.
Clothes come and go. They get worn, outgrown, handed down and tossed away. But a girl’s wedding dress is so much more. It’s a symbol of hope, love and new beginnings. I still can’t bring myself to throw it out. Instead, I think I’ll torture my kids and leave that task to them after I’m gone. If they read this, maybe they’ll think twice before doing so, or at least send it off with some kind of ceremony. Who am I kidding? My eldest son will toss it without giving it a second thought, declaring, “Time to end that chapter, ma”.
Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand high: “To the wedding dress, a symbol of a young girl’s dreams, 80’s fashion and the miracle of a “gentle cycle”. May it forever remind us that while love may take a few spins through life’s challenges, some things are just too special to throw away. Cheers”!
