27 Dresses: Shut Your Button Hole

The day of reckoning had finally arrived. I finally had the chance to make amends for my serious faux paux from the last time I went bridesmaid dress shopping. For those who know my modus operandi must surely know that giving me an opportunity to make good on previous mistakes does not necessarily mean I will capitalise on it and the situation could very easily go from pear shaped to pear cobbler faster than you can say male ignorance; especially when you place Rudolph, Bourke, and me in the same room.

To make matters worse my cousin Brenton, who loves scoring as much as next guy had joined the fray as the third groomsman. Thankfully to counteract his “I’m a blowfly” sunglasses Marina’s little sister Rochelle, a girl who is all too familiar with the inner workings of knitting needles and the dreaded “Nana Zone”, had agreed to be the third bridesmaid.

Eager to arrive at the bridal boutique early to meet Sarah and Bourke who we knew would be punctual, Marina and I set our alarms accordingly. Unfortunately Rochelle and Marina’s dad, who was joining us to get his suit fitted, had set their alarms based on Indian Standard Time thereby causing us to run twenty minutes late.

Sarah though was not concerned with our tardiness, because it gave her plenty of time to subject Bourke to the endless world of bridal couture. When we finally arrived, Bourke stampeded over; the relief on his face palatable. Sparing him further torture I led him to the suit section, while Sarah and Rochelle joined Marina for her first dress fitting.

I have to admit guys have it easy when it comes to selecting suits. We only have a few styles to choose from, a Spartan selection of accessories and two colours. Where I am concerned this is a positive, because if there is too much choice my brain usually goes into meltdown. I am sure the many women reading this might argue that this limitation extends beyond me to the whole male population, but since I never generalise, I will simply say that I am glad that I did not have the choice that Marina faced when it came to selecting suitable wedding attire. With those brownie points dutifully earned lets move on to where they were suitably lost.

Rudolph and Brenton arrived about ten minutes after we did and once their suits were fitted, I was faced with one final decision – Should the cravat be inset with a white button or the much more trendy, or gaudy depending on your point of view, black button?

Sarah, who had finished helping Marina came out to see (read here: spy on) what the boys were doing.

“Definitely the black button,” Bourke suggested.
“I think so too,” I concurred.
“Have you checked with Marina?” Sarah interrupted.
“What has he checked with Marina?” Marina bounded into the suit section with a grin that a Cheshire cat would be proud of, obviously ecstatic that she had found her dress.
“I like the black the button, honey,” I showed Marina the cravat.
“What’s the other choice?” Marina asked.
I modelled the cravat with the white button.
“Definitely the white button,” Marina said without hesitation.
“But the black is more stylish,” I countered.
“The white gives it a subdued flair,” Marina argued.
“I think Marina is right,” Sarah squawked.
Bourke, like every backup should, fell in behind me. “Don’t worry Darren, black is better. I had black.”
“Bourke stay out of this!” The daggers flew out of Sarah’s eyes. Bourke a seasoned paintballer and husband dodged them effortlessly.
From that point it was on for young and old, and Rudolph was soon embroiled in the spat, when Marina asked for his opinion.
Being diplomatic (and probably fearful for his life), Rudolph said with a smile “Whatever you guys want is fine by me.”
I am sure Brenton would have got involved too, but realising this domestic could get ugly made a quick exit, telling me on the way out he was eager to get some practice in for his soccer semi-final the following day.

Sarah though was anything but diplomatic. “Darren you should just agree with Marina. She has seen the dress and knows what will match.”
Marina, a skilled teacher and experienced in handling male immaturity, added this little gem. “Well I think the white button is definitely better, because the black one looks like you are going to a funeral…” You will be happy to know that self preservation kicked in and I was smart enough not to open my mouth “…but in the end it is your decision.”
Bourke, Sarah’s loveable smart arse stirred the pot further. “Darren, choose wisely because this is the last decision you will ever be allowed to make.”
I stayed silent, mulling it over in my head as “Help” by the Beatles played over the store’s music system.
Not wanting any bloodshed on her suits and dresses, the sales girl broke the tense silence by suggesting that “we didn’t have to decide right away. We could think about which cravat to choose” and let her know later.

It sounded like a good idea. But being a Taurus, I am stubborn and like Marina, I realised the button debate was just beginning and if anything this break in conversation was more the calm before the storm rather than a truce.

With the suits and Marina’s dress sorted that only left the bridesmaids. Rudolph, wanting to avoid further wedding related violence, used this as his chance to make a quick getaway. Marina’s dad too, suddenly felt the desire to wash his hair (which is strange since is his hair, like the financial market, is in a recession) asked to be dropped off on the way to next dress appointment. But while my backup was dropping like flies, Marina’s battalion of femme fatales were growing in strength. Cheryl met Marina, Sarah, Rochelle and Bourke and I in a far flung corner of Wetherill Park, an area with the distinction of being a Bridal Mecca.

Even though I had lost half of my men, you should have by now realised that Bourke and I are still a force to be reckoned with. Sure, individually Bourke and I can be annoying, infuriating and a downright pain the posterior, but together we are as irritating as a wet squirrel down your pants.

Our first stop was an outlet of the same shop we visited in the morning, because it was touted as having a bigger selection of bridesmaid dresses. But like all propaganda there was nothing behind the hype. The girls wasted little time in searching through dresses that they had already seen and quickly moved onto the next store, where Bourke drew our attention to a male mannequin in the window wearing a cravat with a black button.

He instantly extolled the virtues of the black button over the white button. I have to say the man made a convincing argument. I already knew the button was stylish, but the way he described how it broke up the ensemble to create a great focal point was certainly well researched. He also commented on the various artistic uses a photographer might use to bring the button and the dress together, thereby creating luscious collage that we would treasure forever. Marina too had a persuasive counter argument as to why I should not wear the black button – “Honey, just imagine how comfy the couch will be on the wedding night?” Sarah supported her friend’s point of view and then told me I shouldn’t listen to Bourke – “he’s an idiot!” She then turned to Marina and happily informed her that it would be her pleasure to nag me at work to make sure I chose the white button. From all accounts, our special day was going to hinge on what button I choose.

Like picking the correct button was a difficult task, so too was finding a place that sold bridesmaid dresses. By the third store, it became apparent that the all the shops in the area only catered to the brides but not their bridesmaids, which was frustrating seeing as we drove all the way out there for that reason alone. Thankfully Cheryl and Sarah remembered a nearby mega store that might have what we wanted.

They were right. The place was massive and contained rack upon rack of bridesmaid dresses of various colours and designs. However like a blind man at a buffet, we had no idea where to start and so we went in search of sales assistant. We quickly realised that the girl we asked had no idea what her job title actually meant. She was supposed assist us so she could make a sale, but she obviously found the assistant part of the job description confusing. Marina tried to explain the style of dress she was looking for, and she came back with an ensemble that looked like Barney’s love child. Marina tried again, this time with the help of charades and the use of pictograms. Nodding her head in agreement, the sales assistant scurried off, only to return with a dress that a homeless person would think twice about wearing.

Marina, in an act of utter desperation turned to Bourke and me for help. If the previous sentence does not make you realise how bad the service was in this store, then I don’t know what will, because let’s be honest you’d have to be at your wits end to allow Bourke and I loose in a dress store to help you find a dress.

I led Bourke into the dark jungle of racks with gusto and set about searching for the dress that Marina had shortlisted a couple of weeks ago. For all our good intentions our search was fruitless. The girls too were having a hard time finding something that tickled their fancy and decided to cut their losses, accept defeat and make a beeline for the exit. Our escape was halted by Sarah’s excited yelp. Displayed on a rack, in full view of everyone was the dress Marina wanted the girls to try.

Instantly Bourke and I were bombarded with words and phrases such as “useless”, “blind”, “stupid”, “Can’t we rely on you two for anything?” and “Darren I think you need a new pair of glasses.” In our defence we only did what we were told to do. We were explicitly instructed “to have a look in the racks.” And that is what we did. At no point in the given set of instructions were we told to see what the mannequins were wearing.

Needless to say we were instantly banned from being a bridesmaid dress consultant and instead we were both relegated to couch cushion warmer. Again the task of assisting the girls with their dresses, were beyond the scope of the sale girls present. By the end of it, Marina had decided to put the dresses back and forget the whole scenario ever happened.

I am glad she did. While Bourke and I were waiting we found out a few aspects of this store that unsettled me some what. For one, the colour choice begged some consideration. This place did not offer standard colours like red or blue, or even the more zany colours like turquoise, but colours that came from smells – “musk” and fruit – “banana.” I am certain that Marina did not want a dress that people could “scratch and sniff”.

In addition to the weird colours Bourke warned me that the material used to make the dresses might be second rate, indicating to me a swatch of fabric that was obviously the Chinese rip off of Satin – “Sateen”.

But the day was not all bad. Even though our expedition to Wetherill Park did not end in success, at least we had covered all our bases, and now we knew exactly where to go for the bridesmaid dresses. We also finished hiring the guys’ suits and more importantly, Marina had ordered her dress. I guess the only problem that remained was what type of button will I have in my cravat? Was it going to be black or white? Instead of making a snap decision now, I will definitely have to think about it, and I guess like Marina, you will find out which button I opted for on our big day.