“That’s the one,” my mother said, wiping tears from her eyes. “That’s the one.”
I had been shedding tears of my own just a few days earlier when I finally confessed a secret horror to my mother – the bridal superstore seamstresses had ruined my wedding gown. When I said the words aloud, the reality finally set in. The way it didn’t lay right anymore. The bunching and the puckering. These issues weren’t figments of my imagination. Oh my God, the alterations people destroyed my dress.
“Just breathe, baby,” my mother told me. “It will all be ok.”
Somehow, in this moment, it was all ok. The stress of a new search, the six week deadline, the lost money faded from my mind as I floated in a white cloud of tulle.
We interrupt this blogging hiatus to bring you a big ball o’ cute . . .
That is all.
I study myself in the mirror. Although my trainer friend has helped me reshape my body, my critical eye is immediately drawn to flaws. Besides the visible panty lines (ugh), the red dress gently clings to my butt and thighs. Places that are still soft. Stubborn.
I sigh, wishing I could transfer some of that extra butt cleavage to my shrinking breasts. All that work and I still feel myself frown at my reflection. The dress fits. It’s just not quite perfect.
When I turn around, I see the Captain watching me examine my figure. He takes me in his arms and squeezes me tight. His hands skim over the red dress, caressing every curve beneath - even the “soft” spots. With happy sighs he massages my back and my shoulders. He feels my tiny waist and slimming hips. He is completely pleased with everything he touches. That brings me comfort.
I wish I could see me the way you see me.
A house-hunting revelation I came to while sick with the flu this week: Any home in which the master bedroom and bathroom are on different floors is unacceptable.
There goes my number one choice.
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