of course I remember it! every word of it! you think I can't remember 250-500 words for a measly fifty hours? Ha hahaha. I laugh lightly at your sorry skepticism. Here ya go.
Within the last year or so, I've come to understand that choosing a garment that can optimally showcase one's incandescent beauty requires, principally, addressing two factors: 1. appropriate cut/fit for one's shape; and (here's what I now better appreciate:) 2. felicitous choice of color and pattern.
By 'felicitous' I don't really mean 'pretty' or 'a color I like.' I mean something in proximity of which one's complexion looks neither apoplectic, nor in imminent danger of accidental horizontal storage in a refrigerated drawer. A color that does not cause one to disappear behind it entirely, such that the wedding guests cry out: Why is that frock suspended in mid-air? It is an annoyance and a hindrance on the dance floor! Remove it—dispose of it—shove it in a broom closet! A color that offsets the shining, dark, deep glory of brunette tresses, rather than giving the impression that said tresses have been dressed with cow manure.
You know: felicitous.
No one could be more surprised than I to discover that subtle changes in my complexion and haircolor have resulted in a marked alteration in which colors suit me best. Or perhaps I've been dazzling assorted viewers with my radiance in spite of a lifelong ignorance in this area. In any case: I've discovered that my new best colors are corally pinks and soft, peachy orange tones; claret reds; mossy greens; and the humble, earthy brown.
Consequently, for the wedding I bought a beautiful halter neck dress, tea-length or slightly shorter, with a tulle-lined hem to keep the skirt full ... a lovely cotton retro Paris print (think Bemelmans), two shades of brown (reddish and chocolate) and an accent of golden tan on a bright white ground. Somehow, one can't make a dress in brown sound pretty; I assure you, however: this dress was devastatingly pretty. On me, it was irresponsibly pretty—recklessly pretty. Chunky white slide-on sandals, bead bracelets, smallish coordinating Robert Rose chandelier earrings, pearly coral toenail polish, and rosy brown fingernail polish that I'd thought never would come back into style but lo and behold.
I was so very pretty that even my husband gasped.
But as I finished getting ready (in a bit of a hurry as you remember from two-posts-down), once I'd slipped the dress on and was just getting the few items stowed in the perfect linen clutch and putting on lipstick, I kept hearing a small mysterious *clunk* as I passed through doorways ... finally ready to rush out the door and head off to Brooklyn—literally in my driveway—I found the source of the clunk: the perfect accessory to my look, in a subtle ecru plastic: the security tag, not removed at purchase, fastened firmly to the left side of the skirt of my dress.
Nine a.m. on a Sunday; no chance of finding a store that could remove it for me.
I did not dance. When I couldn't cover the tag with the clutch bag, I tucked it under my left thigh. Still had lots of fun, got corruscatingly drunk. The bride was lovely, of course. The end.