Frocked up

Even though they're clean, my sister washes her hands before she touches the dress.

She needs my help putting it on - it's too complicated to do herself, being ivory, beaded, lacy and heavy as hell. I hold it up as she wriggles into it from underneath and do up hidden zips, domes, pulleys, tug down the tulle, lace up the back, smooth out wrinkles, make sure it sits properly over her hips, find earrings, discuss the merits of bras and toeless stockings, arrange the veil, pull the laces tighter, find the shoes and admire the total effect in the mirror.

What is tulle?

She glides out of the bedroom and into the lounge.

"I can walk. That's good. I wonder if I can sit?"

Saturday will be a long day.

"I can perch!"

"How much was it?" I call out, rudely.

"I'm not telling," she shouts. She's made it to the kitchen.

"Go on!"

"Not as much as other wedding dresses."

"How much?"

"I'm not one of those people!"

"How much?"

"I'm not telling!"

She's making all the bridesmaid's dresses herself, shaking her head at the rort of the whole wedding industry. Flowers, musicians, cake, food, photographer, shoes, invitations, hair, makeup, bonbonnieres, fake tans, rings, ties, suits, honeymoon - everyone adds 200 per cent when you say anything about a wedding. It's because brides are fussier, apparently.

But the bridesmaid's dresses she likes in the shops cost at least four hundred dollars each, and there are four of us to clothe, primp and decorate. So - nine metres of rich, silky fabric flung out on the kitchen floor, to be cut, pinned, cut again, tacked, stitched, pleated and hemmed. It's a nerve-wracking business; she found the fabric on e-Bay and can't get any more.

Heavy sighs from the corner of the lounge. She has to sew 16 curved bits to put our busts in, and it's not going well.

"I wish no-one had boobs!"

"I don't," says my other little sister serenely from the couch, where she's been put to work hand-sewing.

I stand, arms outstretched, for the fittings. 

"Don't move," my sister says as she pins behind my shoulders. According to directions, I have put on earrings, shoes, bracelets, taken off the bracelets, put on stockings, changed the earrings, put my hair up, left it down, put it half up.

She steps back and we both look in the mirror, assessing.

"Were you going to get a spray tan?"

Mum texts from New Zealand.

"How's it going? Lay off the bread." 

"Don't worry, no-one will be looking at me," I text back.

She fires back something meant to be encouraging, I'm sure.

- © Fairfax NZ News

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the voice of reason   #1   02:55 pm Sep 02 2010

sometimes i wish i had boobs. hope the wedding goes ok and no one awkwardly yells out an objection. actually that would make a good blog as well probably. heres hopeing!

c   #2   09:47 am Sep 03 2010

haha this sounds exactly like you guys :-) hope it is a beautiful day!

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