These Days by Stephanie

My mother had two opportunities to be a mother of the bride – both with me. The first go-round, she mailed a Calvin Klein sheath in brown paper wrapping to my then home in Miami. In my 22-year-old bride-to-be’s mind, I had no questions nor any notions that brides and mothers typically shared what my mother called “hoopla” surrounding a wedding. I took in the dress for minor alterations, and that was what I wore. The second time around, there was no doubt in my mind that I would wear the same gown that Goldie Hawn wore in Private Benjamin. I went with my mother to the designer on Seventh Avenue, tried on “the dress” and then went on my own for a couple of fittings. Once again: no sentiment, no indulgence, no “hoopla.” I could have been ordering a ham and Swiss on rye from the local deli when I bought the second dress – laboring more about whether to have mustard or Russian dressing than I did about the gown.
My daughter Ellie, who is oats and granola and, oh so green, threw me a curve when she made an appointment at Kleinfeld’s – the famed bridal powerhouse of “Say Yes to the Dress” fame. I have never watched “Say Yes to the Dress.” I have only heard about it through my daughter. I have also become familiar with the newly-coined sobriquet “Bridezilla” – and have been concerned, since Ellie’s engagement in October, that this down-to-earth Bohemian child of mine who can tell you the Latin name of every flower and plant, and wants to rescue every stray dog in America was slowly morphing into the bridal monster. Not to mention that she was raised by me, a mother tied to hippie roots as I combated the trials of suburban convention.
Unlike many of my friends and acquaintances, I was not “excited” by the notion of Kleinfeld’s. In fact, I dreaded it. I had envisioned Ellie and me poking around boutiques in New York City’s West Village or SoHo. Maybe some vintage shops. Clearly picking up on my reluctance and my ignorance of the Kleinfeld scene, and also because she is one of Ellie’s beloved’s, Ellie invited her “Aunt” Ellen to sleep over and join us for the early morning appointment at Kleinfeld’s last Saturday. Ellen is an interesting mesh: She likes Jack Daniels as well as champagne, watches “Say Yes” and “American Chopper,” and likes Bike Week as much as Canyon Ranch.
At the last minute when Ellen said she would be at Kleinfeld’s in the morning, but couldn’t have the sleep over, Ellie panicked.
“Maybe you should get someone else to come with us in case Ellen can’t make it,” she said.
“I can handle it,” I said, trying not to show the little twinge I felt. Ellie had no confidence in me.
“Yeah, but you know how you are, Mom,” she said.
Whenever Ellie punctuates a sentence with “Mom” I know that she feels as though she is talking to someone who either has trouble with comprehension or a screw loose.
We met Ellen at Kleinfeld’s on Saturday morning at 9:30. At the reception desk, I introduced the bride, and then mentioned that I had met at least three people in the last three months who knew Kleinfeld’s CEO.
“Oh. My. Gawd!” exclaimed the dark-haired, heavily made-up woman around my age who manned the desk. “So, do you do The Hamptons?”
I felt a tugging on my arm so strong I thought my shoulder would dislocate. It was Ellie in an attempt to stop me from repeating, “Do I do what? Do I Do The Hamptons? No I do not ‘do’ The Hamptons.”
My eyes glazed over. My sensibilities reeled. What on earth were we doing here?
Our names were called to enter the showroom floor where we were assigned to a dressing room with a personal assistant. It was a veritable stampede as we fought our way through a sea of bridezillas replete with entourage: fathers, mothers, wedding planners, best friends, brothers, sisters. And the brides sporting engagement rings so large that I could have sworn the young women all tilted down on their left sides. The bling was blinding.
Apparently, at Kleinfeld’s, any dress under $10,000 is considered to be not worth wearing. Despite the price tags, the fabrics were indelicate and heavy: I remarked that one could wear the gowns if they were getting X-rays. As Ellie tried on dress after dress, I noticed that my little granola baby whose eyes sparkled earlier that morning at the prospect of finding “The Dress” was no longer beaming. Despite the insistence of our personal assistant that “this is the one” with each dress Ellie tried on, my daughter – her back scraped from sequins, zippers, and general tugging to make things “fit” with giant metal clips used in lieu of pins – was no longer feeling like a bride.
“Look at your mother,” said the assistant, as Ellie stood in a monstrosity that made her look like she was masquerading as a bride. “She’s all teary.”
“It’s allergy,” I said – but, in fact, it was frustration coupled with a touch of fury.
“Mommy, do you think you’ll cry when we find the right dress?” Ellie asked hopefully.
“Not me,” I said, glaring at the assistant. “I don’t cry over dresses.”
The experience was beginning to feel like bridal brainwashing.
About ten dresses later, our allotted hour was up. At Kleinfeld’s, you have one hour to decide on the purchase of a lifetime. We were advised to go to lunch, and talk about everything but the dress – this wisdom offered by another Kleinfeld “official” who, I guess, doubled as the store psychologist.
We put on our coats and left – my baby girl with her lips pursed; mouth turned downwards.
All week long in anticipation of this appointment, I had felt like a crappy mother of the bride – questioning all of my instincts, wondering if I wasn’t mimicking my mother’s lack of attention if not abject dismissal of the occasion, analyzing the reasons behind my mother’s maternal psyche versus my own, and generally, unable to put my finger on exactly what was bothering me about my new role.
It came to me as we three hit the streets in what was the coldest day so far this winter: This “scene” was simply all wrong.
“Taxi!” I called, summoning a cab.
And as we three piled in, Ellen and Ellie looked at me as though I had finally gone mad.
I commanded the driver as one would a trusty steed (with everything but a “hi ho, Silver, away!”). “Broome Street!” I cried.
As the cab drove down Broome, there it was, that boutique I had pictured all along replete with huge plate glass window filled with white dresses that screamed fairytale.
We walked inside and Ellie’s face lit up, “The Flaming Lips!” she exclaimed.
I cocked my head to the side. “What?”
“That’s one of my favorite bands!” she said. “They’re playing The Flaming Lips!”
Clearly, we were in the right place.
Less than an hour later, Ellie found “The Dress” with the help of sweet Katie, the sales associate who could have fit into Ellie’s crowd of friends. Ellen said it was the first time since our hour was up at Kleinfeld’s that the color had come back to Ellie’s face. We would have been out of the boutique an hour sooner than we were, but Ellie wouldn’t take off the gown.
And I admit, I did cry. Not over the dress, but for my daughter whose day, the one she has been anticipating since she was about six, was exactly what it should have been all along.
We three then headed over to the venerable tin-ceilinged Café Fanelli, and over sandwiches, French fries, fried onion rings, wine, beer and a glass of Jack on the rocks for Ellen (after the day we had, Aunt Ellen decided to go for the big guns and we all ate like sailors), we celebrated. We raised our glasses and toasted the notion that it is essential to be true to yourself.
As for me, well, I finally feel like the mother of the bride – because the bride is once again back on earth – oats, granola and green – and dressed like a ballerina in silk chiffon ivory.