I never kept track of what was fashionable, although my family swears that as a little girl I would go the full 9 yards and dress in my mother's clothes (and make-up!) and prance in front of the mirror. I say - no pictures, no proof! But somehow as I got to be a mother, jeans and t-shirts became my staple.

For our wedding day, my soon to be husband asked me whether I'd like to "splurge" on a dress. I literally laughed in his face and started to panic, because he ordered a fancy, hand stitched. suit. He was going to make me look bad! So I panicked some more. I called up my friend Bessie, a true fashionista, and heard her chuckling on the other end of the phone. Sort of a payback time for all the after school sports I'd forced her to play with me in (at least she got to meet cute boys).

My idea of just pulling an off the rack, picked in an afternoon dress didn’t seem right any more.

Bessie is great fun to go shopping with. She's honest in a non-hurtful way about what looks good and what doesn't. WIth only a few weeks to go before the wedding I wasn't going to get anything super custom or elaborate, but I'd have to find something.

She dragged me from botique to botique and got mad because most didn't carry off the rack in stock. Just pictures. We didn't have time for that.

Finally she pulled into some small botique that looked super snooty. I didn't want to go in, but she made me. I was expecting to get looked at as how dare I step foot into their pristine store, but apparently they new Bessie and they treated me like royalty - they jumped into gear and vowed to make me beautiful.

They actually took two dresses and right in front of me they RIPPED apart the top of one and quickly pinned it on top the other. I remember audibly gasping (also wondering how much they were going to charge me and if I had to pay for the one that was ruined).

They stitched and pinned and made me walk around and move and argued among themselves. I began to think that MY being there didn't really matter any more.

I was handed a list of things to buy- a veil, a set of pearls, a girdle and corset, gloves and to come back in 5 days.

I gingerly stepped out of the hacked dress and being careful to avoid all the stickpins I gave them my word that I'd be back and left, eyes as big as saucers. It was nothing to Bessie though, and I sat in the front seat, worried about what I'd just gotten myself into.

I needn't have worried. They worked magic and the dress fit me to a T when I returned in a week and a half to try it on. I had purchased the things they had asked for and, embarassed as I was, they made me put it all on and as I stood in the mirror, even I was impressed by how good a fitted dress and a bunch of prodding and stuffing one's self into a girdle could make you look.

Standing next to my husband I looked every bit as good as he did. That day I might have even looked better than my maid of honor Bessie.