My longtime friend, Olivia, is easily the chillest bride I’ve ever encountered in my years of weddings—and trust me, I’ve seen my fair share. There was absolutely no hint of Bridezilla in her demeanor; in fact, the pressure was all on me.
What was getting under my skin, you ask? Standing beside one of my dearest friends on her special day should be nothing but joyous, right? Well, aside from the fact that I was nearing 40, losing one of my last single friends, and bracing myself for a whirlwind of parties where I’d be surrounded by unfamiliar faces, there was also the little matter of my size. With nearly 90 extra pounds weighing me down and a significant dip in self-confidence, I didn’t even have a date to accompany me to the wedding.
But none of those concerns compared to my ultimate source of dread: the bridesmaid dress.
You’ve seen her—the bridesmaid awkwardly positioned behind the others, or standing at the end, trying to balance out the lineup. If the dress is sleeveless (which they seem to love these days), she’s the one in a shawl, trying to cover her arms while clutching a bouquet in front of her, concealing her less desirable features. She’s the one that makes you feel a bit sorry for her—the “unfortunate” one who doesn’t fit the traditional mold of tall, slender beauty. That unfortunate one was me.
Fortunately, Olivia graciously let us choose our own dresses as long as we stuck to her color and fabric preferences. This didn’t come as a surprise; Olivia has always been the kind of friend who makes you feel like you can conquer the world. Even if you don’t quite match her level of external beauty (and let’s be honest, she’s got it in spades), she has a way of making you feel utterly stunning just as you are. So when I went to pick out my dress, I was naive enough to believe I could look like the gorgeous girls in bridal magazines.
This wasn’t my first tango with self-doubt in the realm of bridesmaid attire. Back in 1987, my sister chose a gaggle of bridesmaids who were all around 5’4″ and weighed no more than 110 pounds, while I stood at a gangly 5’10” and tipped the scales well beyond that. The dress was a late-80s monstrosity that could only be described as Dynasty-themed gone wild—think a puffed ballerina skirt with a plunging neckline and sleeves that looked like they belonged on a cartoon character.
At 17, fitting into that dress was a tall order, to say the least. The smallest size available was a 12, and I was a solid 14. So, under the pressure of my mom and sister, I was dragged into a whirlwind of aerobics classes, Jane Fonda workouts, and a bride-imposed diet of turkey and celery sticks. All that effort led to me wearing a different dress—one that fit and flattered my figure. But, of course, I was accused of sabotaging everything.
Fast-forward to Olivia’s wedding day, and I was determined to outsmart the dress dilemma this time around. I ordered the gown three sizes larger and, after losing 46 pounds since she asked me to be in her wedding, I was feeling a glimmer of hope. I couldn’t wait to try on that beautiful scarlet gown.
At my mom’s house, I slipped into the dress, which was roomy at the waist but, when I tried to zip it up, I hit a snag. It was clear that my chest was going to be a problem. My mom, surveying the situation, quipped, “You’re not bringing a date to this wedding, right?” Ouch.
Back in my room, I looked in the mirror, and it hit me hard. Instead of feeling like a bridesmaid, I felt more like a character from a biblical tale—specifically one that didn’t end well. The color? Let’s just say it was not doing my pale skin any favors. But what I couldn’t see were the subtle improvements I had made over the past months; I had indeed lost weight and was starting to feel better about my appearance. Instead, all I could focus on were the yards of fabric that felt like they were suffocating me.
In a moment of desperation, I reached out on Facebook for help and connected with a local seamstress. When I arrived at her studio, stripped down to my basic layers, I felt vulnerable as she took my measurements. But I also felt the weight of my insecurities lift a bit as she began to tailor the dress to fit my body.
After a few days, I picked up the dress and, while it didn’t magically turn me into a supermodel, it finally fit! A week later, I stood beside my longtime friend as she exchanged vows. Just before I walked down the aisle, Olivia gave me a smile that echoed all the years of our friendship—the laughter, the tears, the ups and downs. In that moment, I realized she didn’t see the “fat bridesmaid” I thought I was; she saw her friend.
If only I could believe in myself as much as she believed in me. I would go through this journey again in a heartbeat to honor her, and maybe, just maybe, I’d learn to see the beauty that reflected back from her eyes.
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Summary:
Navigating the ups and downs of being a bridesmaid can be emotionally taxing, especially when grappling with body image issues. This heartfelt narrative captures the journey of self-acceptance and the bond of friendship, showcasing how love and support can help us see ourselves in a new light.