Lesbian trauma at the bridal store.

Every girl from an early age is programmed to start thinking of her wedding. The "man" she will marry, the dress she will wear, the flowers she will buy, and the honeymoon she will take. However, I was never that little girl. I dreamed of cold slides against over sized microscopes, suiting up to work in the deep dark regions of the CDC. Yes, I wanted to be an infectious disease pathologist. I went as far as to kill all my barbie dolls, and "dissect" them in the backyard. I assume several are probably still buried there. Yes, I have always been an odd sort.

So at the first of August Andrea said, "hey babe why don't we go up to Iowa and get married?" I had a deer in the head light moment. Sure, I want to get married. I mean we have the right to, I feel we should exercise it. So what do you need to get married. I fell back onto all those images, my mother had programmed into me as a girl. First, I need a venue (check), second I need a dress.

Now, I consider myself to be fairly feminine under the definitions of our societies constraints. Meaning, sometimes I wear makeup, I can be vain about my hair, and I like big chunky jewelry. Feminine, right? Wrong.

I made an appt. at the local bridal boutique. The call, me "Hi my name is Amber, I need to make an appt to try on dresses." Which in itself is an odd thought to me, an appt to try on clothes. So strange. The clerk, let's call her Deb. Deb says, "Sure, what style do you like? A-line, ball gown, mermaid, ruched? Do you want formal, retro, laid back. Should we talk designers?" Me ".........I want simple, the rest I have no idea." Deb "Oh no worries we can fix you right up."

So the appt was made. I showed up after seeing six patients that day, my braids were askew, I had my 11 yr old daughter with me- who by the way wanted to try on every gown in the store, and it was 108 outside. I looked like a sweaty, tired mess. The clerk ushered us in to a table, where another clerk sat looking like a pristine picture of peace. She had a huge book, and was marking names in it like a person on crack picks at a scab. "Hello Amber, my name is Deb. I will be taking care of you today." Alright, I was thinking I could browse around, pick some dresses try them on. I was unaware I needed help. Also, I suck with help.

Before I knew what was happening I was shoved into a dressing room with a large number on the outside "28" all the rooms had floor to ceiling mirrors on the outside, and the carpet was a deep plush red. It was a cross between a strip joint, and a country club. I stood alone in the room. After awhile Deb came back carrying three bags. Those aren't big enough to be dresses was my first thought. She says, "You are a 38 D right? Here is a corset, and a slip put them on." Ok, a little bossy, but whatever. I start to strip, and Deb pokes her head in. "Excuse me" I say in a huffy voice. Deb says, "Oh just checking on you, turn around let me lace you up." Being half naked, and shoved into the corner, I turned around and let her lace me up. Deb seemed happy that I couldn't breath, and that I had lost all senses of modesty.

Next followed a procession of dresses, some to big that I was pinned into, some too small that wouldn't zip. All the while, I had to march around in front of the large fun house mirrors. While various employees came by to "ooh and ahh" over the selections. Mostly while I was naked in a corset, and slip Deb would take the opportunity to discuss gay rights. She wanted me to know, she didn't care I was marrying a woman, even though she was a christian...and on...and on...and on.

Three hours later I was done. I still had not found a dress that I was comfortable in, or that I liked. I walked away having decided that I am in fact not feminine at all, and that if I never see another bridal shop it will be to soon.