“Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” George Bernard Shaw

Greetings Dear Ones,

I am seriously considering doing a long-range field study of brides, tracking the duration of their marriages based on observations accumulated during the process of altering their wedding gowns. I am curious about who stays together longer: Does fate favor the meepy ones who look in the mirror and shrug helplessly? They don’t know what they want so they take what they get… Or those who confidently command that absolutely everything about a perfectly well-fitting dress must be altered to suit them? (If it has sleeves, chop them off. If it is strapless, make some sleeves. If it has Bling, remove it. If Bling is absent, by golly, add as much as you can jam under a presser foot.) These Born Designers—will their spouses and children become life-long projects they keep trying to perfect? What happens to those who come in a year in advance and never gain or lose an ounce? Or those who stress eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the car on the way in, apologize, then insist the dress not be let out to fit, since they are definitely going to lose weight (for sure, this time) before the wedding, even if the wedding is next week. Once they stop being “managed” by their zealous bridesmaids and mothers, what happens to these brides? Who does better-- Adapters or Planners?

I’m not sure what kind of crazy energy was at play in the shop this week but Planners have been thin on the ground. I had not one, but TWO brides come in with gowns that did not fit. Now, there’s nothing unusual about that, given that I rarely see brides coming in with gowns that DO fit (except for one last week, but that’s a different story!) The thing that was incredible about both of these brides is that their weddings are THIS SATURDAY. It’s rare to have them come in at such a last minute (granted, it happens) but to have TWO in the same week, in addition to all the usual groomsmen/bridesmaids “who suddenly realized” their outfits don’t fit, felt like the planet was going through some version of white water rapids. One night I got so anxious about all the deadlines I couldn’t sleep. To calm myself, I went outside at two a.m., filled up the outdoor tub and lay in warm water, watching the stars. It was heavenly to remember what a spec I am in the grand scheme of things. Weddings can make us forget where the sun is…like the whole world revolves around them, instead of the other way around.

“I’ll pay anything,” the Disorganized say with hopeful exuberance, “just help me!” I shake my head.

“I’ll help you,” I promise, picking up my thimble and magic wand, “but I don’t exhort extra money from those who are late, lost, unprepared or Desperate. Online measurement charts are confusing. Postal deliveries get delayed. Global supply chains get gummy. Shit happens. I get it.” They nod gratefully but panic. They think if they offer extra money I might work faster. Now they don’t know what might happen. Some think waving money is an air-freshener. It’s not.

I try not to judge harshly the ones who say “My mother told me weeks ago I should probably get this done…” or joke “guzzling craft beer was my Covid hobby.” But Prudence does. She thinks the Magic Wand should be a Bride-swatter.

Despite the pressure they put on me, I love these Slackers. These are my people. I am them. It feels good to be on their team.

One bride brought in two dresses. One was far too big; it needed to be remade about four inches smaller all around. The other was too small; it needed to be let out everywhere as much as possible, including at the zipper to add four inches. There was no Goldilocks option. “I don’t care which one I wear,” she said, “just go with the one that will be faster.” I study them carefully. They are not even close to being the same design. One is a simple frock with an off-the-shoulder ruffle; the other is a giant lemon meringue pie of a thing with yards of crinoline and lace overlay.

“You tell me,” I insist. “I can force either one of these suckers to fit you. Don’t let the amount of work be the deciding factor. Which one of these dresses is the love of your heart?”

She points to the simple one. I agree. She doesn’t look like the lemon meringue type. But I know, perhaps better than most (I, who was a peace-keeping lemon meringue pie myself, back in the day) why she chose it as an alternative: because she is still Young. She could be anything. Her heart calls her to be Simple but there is an irresistible lure that “fussy” has that dazzles and her heart is still gaining the strength it needs to defend its private choices against an onslaught of outside pressures. She definitely has it in her to Dazzle. Her scope is wide, her potential endless. She is an Adapter.

I have to do the dress all in one afternoon, given my other pending obligations, so she hangs out with me in the shop for multiple fittings until I find the four inches we need. It is a treasure hunt of opening darts, seam allowances, linings and the gold mine of an entire inch at the zipper. Somehow, magically, there is an extra four inches hidden all over this dress. We both scream with triumph and high-five each other when it finally zips all the way up and hangs smoothly.

While I work, we chat. She is bright, happy, vivacious—an excellent listener and conversationalist. It is a joy to have her lighting up the shop with stories of her life experiences. She is a warm, loving, special education teacher. We talk about parenting, “studenting,” teaching, and training. I tell her that I thought being a teacher would have made me a better parent than I was; that parenting should have made me a better ox trainer. I realize now that I probably should have trained the oxen first. My life choices would have been so much cleaner. Training oxen makes one think carefully about Teamwork, discipline, and pulling together. One must be flexible AND clear…

“Tell me about your partner,” I say. “Are you marrying a Planner?”

She giggles abruptly at the insinuation. She is not disorganized in general, she insists—just unlucky in postal delivery schedules.

“What are the things you love most about your partner that make this person someone you want to cherish for the rest of your time on earth? How are you going to be the co-guardian of the gifts within each other? How will you share and serve each other’s mission in this life? How are you going to seek each other’s growth and joy? How will you find that balance between Planning and Adapting as you see each other along the trail of memories yet to be? How do you source your clarity when you get confused? What will you accept? What are potential deal-breakers? What do you want the journey to look like, when you look back from the other side?

She is the type of spirit-daughter of whom I can ask all these questions. As she talks, I feel a swelling sense of Gratitude that there are young people in the world like her. My inner twenty-five-year-old Lemon Meringue Pie listens with awe and humble self-forgiveness. She did not know what this modern bride knows. She did her best, but there is greater wisdom now. Perhaps her “failures” have been a gift towards that wisdom.

I love how this modern bride adapts to challenges. Her laughter bubbles easily. She knows a dress is just a dress and a day is just a day. I see and love her idealism, her charisma, her Faith that All is Always well, and the Curiosity that shines from her as she speaks. She is an Adapter on the precipice of so many Possibilities. If I were her partner, I would want to guard that.

As a storyteller, I know that the difference between a comedy and a tragedy boils down to one thing—is the protagonist capable of Change? It is our ability to roll with Change that makes our individual dramas comic or tragic. To hold with love the simultaneous visions of What Is and What Isn’t and bridge the gap is the essence of Progress, not to mention Good Sewing.

There is nothing so cosmically insignificant as a wedding dress that does not fit and nothing more precious than a soul finding a new way to Mend.

Keep up the Good Work, Dear Ones. I love you Sew Much!

Yours aye,

Nancy