When we first got engaged, people were naturally curious about what I’d wear. As more family members and friends enquired about my ‘dress hunt’ and offered to accompany me to chic bridal boutiques (namely for the prosecco) I felt my hands go clammy and my face turn a shade of white I believe wedding designers refer to as ‘Caspar’.
I hasten to add, I’m far from a wimp. The last year alone has seen me running two half marathons, walking across hot coals and abseiling off Peterborough Cathedral. I’ve been bitten by a cheetah, scratched by a lion and held every kind of creepy crawly. I’ve flown a plane, interviewed celebrities I really admire and travelled out to the African bush alone as a teenager. On my next holiday I’m planning to dive with manta rays. In the dark.
It’s funny how different people’s fears are. I positively relish public speaking, and am fizzing over with excitement about giving a speech on my wedding day, yet the thought of going into a chintzy boutique makes my knees knock.
I’ve been trying to work out exactly what it is that makes me nervous, and I think it comes down to several factors:
As, while my mum possesses many strengths, lovely middle-class ladies trying to sell her something are her Kryptonite. She’ll be at the till, adding: ‘oh yes, I’ll just pop out and buy a trolley for all this.’
I know it’s ridiculous. Every bride I know, from the ultra-girly to the unconventional, has found a shop to suit them, and really enjoyed the ritual of taking friends and family along for a day of shopping. I just need to bite the bridal bullet. Wish me luck.
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