The Hitch

All Rachel Rosenblit wanted was a fairy-tale wedding dress. All her die-hard feminist mother wanted was something pragmatic—and a send-up to the Big Bridal Industrial Complex. What could possibly go wrong?

I was home in Atlanta touring a wedding venue with my mom, our sixth of the day, and Suzanne with the clipboard and kitten heels was showing us around. She was like all the others we’d met, sales types with affirmatives at the ready for whatever bedazzled dreamscape you’d imagined. She’d probably heard all our questions before. Yes, you can string up twinkly lights. Yes, those sofas for after-dinner lounging are included; why don’t we gather there now and go over pricing (which will seem less jarring if I ask personal questions to appear invested in your special day)?

My mother, up to this point, had been a good sport, carting me around in heinous traffic, gamely fielding questions about color schemes and Chiavari chairs. But Eliza Doolittle could only curtsy and talk about the weather for so long. Eventually, I knew my mom—a mischievous mistress of shock value, in no way akin to the debutante and pageant moms who usually toured these spaces—would exhaust her capacity for polite nodding. So when Suzanne asked about my dress—ah, the most fantasy-burdened aspect of a wedding—she couldn’t help herself. She locked eyes with Suzanne. “When I got married,” she said, “I borrowed a dress from my cousin. It barely fit. It had a dark brown coffee stain, right on the front.” Suzanne’s jaw literally dropped. “But who cared?” Mom swatted at the air. “I just covered it with my bouquet.” Suzanne, apparently, had not heard it all.