Page 49 of Wild Hit
“I’m starting to hate my life,” I mutter to myself as I pinch the fabric of one dress that looks like a Bavarian Dirndl. The blouse-like portion is made of see-through fabric, the low bodice consists of a webbing of lace that would probably not even let me sit comfortably, and the miniskirt is some kind of silky concoction that won’t stand a breeze.
I slide it to the left of the hanger and look at the next option. This one has no shoulders and I immediately know it’s not gonna work, even though the rest of it is cute. My chesticles are larger than average—on a significant scale—and I’m not looking forward to any wardrobe dysfunctions.
The third dress does have straps, but when I lift it up by the fabric it splays open by a thigh slit that probably makes it to myribcage. Maybe this is supposed to be worn with another dress underneath?
“Rosalina,” I say in my most commanding voice. “If you don’t bring me something reasonable I’m going to give you the cold shoulder for three days straight.”
“Oh, no. Not the cold shoulder,” she repeats dramatically before sliding the curtain open and offering a handful more options. “Here, I found another rack at the back that has a bit pricier but better options.”
I whine, “We should’ve gone to a thrift store instead.” After all, I have too much mortgage left to pay.
“Absolutely not, the something borrowed is not going to be your wedding dress,” Hope says from somewhere beyond the curtain. It really is a shame that she’s been convinced by Rose that I should look… good, I guess.
Intrinsically there’s nothing wrong with that. I also love how the pieces in my wardrobe make me feel when I wear them, especially when they flatter my top heavy proportions. But this? I grab the extra options and close the curtain again. Whatever dress I come out of this store with is going to feel like the garment I’ll wear while I walk the plank. Not that marriage is the same as being killed by pirates. Not that this marriage is real anyway.
Ugh, my head hurts.
I pick one of the least obnoxious dresses in that it’s a classic, strappy dress with decent coverage. The only defect is that it’s so hot pink it would even offend Marty.
I walk out with my shoulders slumped. I find Hope wearing a yellow sheath number that looks stunning on her athletic frame, and Rose in a very feminine lilac dress that looks like it was made for a fairy, and shows her miles long legs.
“That’s not fair,” I grouch. “Why do you guys get to wear your favorite colors and I don’t?”
Hope motions at herself. “These don’t look like baby mucus.”
Low in my throat, I mumble, “Fair point.”
“What if we all wear pink?” Rose asks. “That way you won’t feel weird on your own.”
“Do I have to?” Hope frowns.
“Yes, join me in my pain,” I respond firmly. “Anyway, what do you think about this one?”
They assess me quietly for all of three seconds each.
“Boring,” one answers.
“Safe.”
I look down at myself. “For whom? Because I’m really feeling the breeze in this one.”
Rose raises her hand. “Let me rephrase. You look like an average woman in the ‘90s.”
My brow tightens. “And that’s a bad thing why?”
“Because,” she enunciates with extra care, “you don’t want to look average. You have to be the star of your own wedding.”
I refrain from pointing out that the wedding isn’t a real milestone in my life that I’ll tell stories about to my kids. With how much I trust men in general, my kids are probably just going to be felines who won’t pay attention to whatever I babble.
Stomping, I go back inside and close the curtain to try another option. I hear them do the same, and for a while there’s only rustling and grunting.
Somehow, we manage to clock each other and come out at the same time. We take one peek at one another and—Burst out laughing like hyenas.
“What the?—”
“Stop, I can’t?—”
“What isthat?”
