“What will I wear?” That was practically the first thought that came to mind when Patrick, my boyfriend of seven years, proposed marriage. But, at age 82, finding the right dress turned out to be a greater challenge than I could have imagined. Everything else came together with ease.
“When?” An afternoon wedding on June 21, the Summer Solstice and the longest day of the year, struck us as appropriate for two octogenarians like us.
“Where?” At home. We’d recently pooled our resources to buy a dream house together, and our garden seemed the perfect place to marry. And who needs a wedding planner when friends and family eagerly pitch in? My brother, Orlyn, a Universal Life Church officiant, was a shoo-in to marry us. Maggie, a filmmaker with a talent for floral design, offered to arrange flowers. When we told our pal, David, a retired chef who’d owned a popular restaurant, that we were getting married, he said, “I’ll cook lunch!”
While the main event was our wedding ceremony, we viewed the occasion as a gathering of cherished friends and family members enjoying good food, music and laughter. Our new home, built in New York’s Hudson Valley in 1907, was once a quaint riverside teahouse that became a racy “speakeasy” during Prohibition. In honor of its storied past, we settled on a Jazz-Age theme for our wedding, with our silvery-voiced friend, vocalist Molly Ryan, singing Cole Porter and Irving Berlin at the reception.
Our theme also meant I could indulge my taste for vintage fashion for my wedding attire. I pictured myself in a smart daytime dress falling below the knee, or a sleek suit with a nipped-in waist, perhaps worn with a tilt hat in the style of Katharine Hepburn. These were fashions I’d always loved and figured I’d shop in my own closet. Unfortunately, I found nothing tucked away that was remotely suitable — or that fit. My treasured thrift shop finds are old friends I couldn’t dream of parting with, but I’d last worn most of them long before my hair turned gray.
Besides, at my age, I’m vintage enough without overdoing it in a rayon number with a lacy collar that Ginger Rogers might have worn hoofing it with Fred Astaire.
I began scouring shops online, from affordable to aspirational, looking for — yes, “a pretty daytime dress, perhaps a suit with a nipped waist.” I couldn’t get that look out of my head. I sent screenshots of various finds to my London pal, Jo-an, a former fashion journalist. She raced off to shops, calling me on WhatsApp, dangling outfits on hangers that she thought might work.
I fell in love with one of the dresses long distance, and promptly ordered it online. When the dress arrived, it was everything I’d desired — a creamy linen top with a swingy chiffon skirt — but my heart sank when I tried it on. I looked like a puffy white marshmallow. Fortunately, the online store was gracious about returns, although I hate returning clothing, fearful that a perfectly good, unworn, tags-attached garment will end up in a massive landfill.
So, I hit department stores, determined not to purchase anything I hadn’t tried on and was absolutely sure was the dress I’d wear on my wedding day. For me, shopping is less “retail therapy” than a grim forced march through consumer hell — too much to choose from! Feeling overwhelmed in a dressing room crammed with “possibilities,” I texted selfies to my friend, Sandy, a Hollywood costume designer, who doesn’t mince words.