I hate taffeta. And don’t try masking it with sexy names like “sangria”, “Victorian lilac”, or “oasis” blue.

                Several years ago, I had the privilege of being a bridesmaid in my next store neighbor’s wedding. I was honored and excited, that was until I walked into bridesmaids’ gown fitting.

                Although the color was beautiful – blue jay blue – the entire fitting experience was a nightmare. As I stood in my bra and panties awaiting my measurements, I thought that this may have been my most mortifying moment save the time that I got my period for the first time and my dad was the only one home. The seamstress entered and started measuring me as gracefully as one does a dead body. “Ah hun, do you think you can lose another inch in your waist?” Was I at a Weight Watchers meeting or at a dress shop where I supposed to throw down $150+ (and happily at that) for a poorly-made dress? I half-smiled and said, “No. I cannot. Just give me the size up.” I looked at the bride in the distance and tried my best to hide my disgust. Remember, Ilana, this day is not about you.

                I returned a few months later for the final fitting. I figured that after a few alterations and a push-up bra, the dress wouldn’t look so bad. After some poking and pinning, the dress finally fit. I use the term “fit” loosely. Well, let’s be honest, it “fit” like hell. You had to send a search party to find my hips and an additional team to locate my boobs. In fact, in addition to the $100 in alteration fees, I paid another $50 for a wondrous water bra that still didn’t fill out the bust of the dress. This day was definitely not about me. And there was no way I was every going to shorten the dress and “wear it again.”

                And so a few weeks ago, I once again found myself walking through a maze of taffeta, chiffon, and satin. However, this time, I was not the one being told that I could wear the dress again. No, this time it was my friend, Rebecca.

                Rebecca and I discussed the sample numbers and colors, dividing them up as gently as butchers. Now, I’m not sure what kind of system David’s Bridal uses, but it’s not as logical as the Dewey Decimal. And so we found ourselves wandering back and forth, tripping and stepping on fake silk and loud sequins. Finally, we found the dresses and headed to the fitting rooms; six dresses, and one hour until closing. It was times like these that make me question if there is a god or at least a Fashion Goddess.

                So Rebecca stepped out in the first gown.

                “I’d like this if it didn’t make me look pregnant,” she mused.

                “I don’t know. It gives you a certain sense of mystery,” I responded.

                She rolled her eyes and starting ripping off the gown.

                “This one isn’t so bad.”

                “Well, that depends. Is this a theme wedding? Are you all supposed to look like nuns?”

                Rebecca headed back for round 3.

                “Ah hah! I think I found one.” And, in fact, she did. The gown – although 2 sizes too big because God forbid there is a size between 2 and 20 – was very flattering. Yes, it was triple the price that it should have been, but we set the dress aside and stepped back to admire our small victory.

                Our spirits somewhat raised as though discovering that the dentist still offers the bubble gum-flavored fluoride as opposed just the boring mint, we continued on to dress number 4.

                “Ugh, just take it off.”

                “Agreed. Shall I try on the rest?”

                “Yes, and let’s get the bride on the phone.”

                A few minutes later, Rebecca was in a very intense phone conversation with the bride-to-be. I fiddled with my phone, looked at my watch, and rubbed my newfound headache. Ugh, even the lights seemed depressed. I could only imagine how the manikins felt. If Rebecca wouldn’t have called my name, I’m sure I would have been caught handing a manikin a Celexa or two.

                “Ilana, she wants me to try on a few more. Can you hang in there with me?” I looked at her with that fighting eye, and mustered up all my courage. And for a moment I thought I heard the Rocky theme song in the background. Yes, in fact, that was it, but in the form of a cell-phone ringtone. I turned around to find a bride with five colorful tattoos and a miserable wedding party. How fitting, I thought.

                We returned to the racks and sorted through the rest of the gowns. Growing tired and hungry, we tried on the final few. But by this point, our standards had almost deteriorated.

                “I mean yes, I like it. It has a certain industrial trash bag quality to it.”

                “Oh, and what about this one?”

                “I’m worried that if you get it wet, you may melt.”

                After a little less than two hours, we narrowed it down to two choices. Exhausted yet entertained by our morbid humor, we left.

                I know I’m dramatizing the bridesmaid gown shopping experience. But like I said, I’m fully aware that I am not the center of attention on someone else’s wedding day. I would never ask that, but I do ask that you give me something that I may enjoy wearing, and preferably not constructed by artificial fabric. I will pay more for the well-made gown in hopes that I may actually wear it more than once. In fact, if I find a good one I may request to wear in every wedding I’m in and just opt to dye it depending on said wedding color(s).

                 Brides, I am confident that you have it in you to pick out a beautiful bridesmaid’s gown, and if not, at least liquor us up before or promise us fondue after the fitting.