Within a month of our first date, it was secretly clear to me that R was the man I was going to marry. Secretly, because men can be funny about these things, apparently. Besides, I was enjoying playing it cool – waiting that agonising 20 minutes before texting him back, and pretending to be a normal girl who doesn’t need two naps a day & self-affirming post-its by her bed.
Meanwhile, whilst pursuing my lifelong hobby of trawling the internet for dreamy white vintage dresses, I found it: the dress. My dress. The wedding dress of my dreams! It had some damage and needed repairs, so it was a steal – like £40 or something! It was a SIGN!
But it was also, let’s be clear, insane. Only a madwoman buys a wedding dress one month into a new relationship. Plus, I was living alone in a tiny, horrible flat, eating nothing but bread. I frequently ran out of petrol because I couldn’t afford to refuel, and had to leave my car on roundabouts and pavements to walk home in the rain. I had debt collectors tracking me down for overdue credit card bills. Of all the things I really needed, a torn vintage wedding dress was not a massive priority.
So, of course, I let it go. Some other girl came along and bought it, & I figured I’d forget it in time.
I HAVE NOT.
Now we are engaged, and I want my dress, dammit. Where is my dress? What do I do?
This is the problem with the one that got away; they are made entirely perfect by all that’s left unexplored. Had I bought said dress, it probably would have looked 80s, or frumpy, or given me four-boob. Because I didn’t buy it, Rory never found it in my wardrobe; he never freaked out about my secret wedding dreams and so the dress never became so tainted by association that I never wanted to see it again.
Instead, it stays preserved in it’s aura of early romance and uncertainty, calling to me, louder than any Vera Wang.
I need help. I need distracting – linking up to other dresses or perhaps to similar dresses with added silver sparkles. I need a Pintervention.
Please help me, internet friends!
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