dressing for me or for Them (whoever They may be)

The lovely Egyptomaniac recently posted a question about appropriate wear to a wedding that could be dressy or could be informal; she was asked (by someone with more nerve than me, that's for sure!) "not to stand out."

In my experience, weddings often bring out the worst in people. Even if they're not the ones doing the invitation list, or the seating, or the flower choices. Example: Early in our relationship, Himself and I were invited to the wedding of one of his cousins. His mother took a vicious interest in what I planned to wear, expecting no doubt the pre-makeover Pretty Woman. Finally the day came, the wedding was somewhere between Short Hills, New Jersey, and Hell, so the Witch and her Familiar (his parents) picked us up to ride out together, and his mother came charging inside to see my outfit before I put a coat on - translation: while there's still time to scream that I should change. I was wearing satin, a tea-length café au lait color princess-seam dress, scoop neck, tiny sleeves; bronze sandals with bright pink flower; my mom's real pearls and ruby earrings. The Witch was speechless. It didn't last. Finally she managed, "Nice pearls." "Thank you, they're my mother's," I replied. The Witch turned to Himself and asked "Didn't she come with any jewelry?" Well, what do you say to that? Given total freedom of choice, I would have caused her sleepless nights by stating that I expected her son to provide plenty when he finally made some real money, but I opted for the high road: "I'm wearing this, since my mother was kind enough to offer it."

And yet, and yet... I look in my closet and see the deep ink-red velvet shirtdress, long sleeves, high collar, mid-calf length, that I wore to the Orthodox Jewish wedding of a friend's daughter. I see the flowery yellow Ralph Lauren slip dress, Collection, no less, that has gone to two indoor/outdoor weddings in Southern California. At one, the mother of the groom checked out the AC, ran out to her car, and came back with an armful of pashminas for everyone, in assorted colors. That's planning. I see a black-and-white wool tweed jacket with lace lapels that tops a silk slip dress in a print that looks exactly like the tweed of the jacket, which has gone to a number of weddings where you keep covered at church and lose the top at the reception.

My sister and I wore green to Mom's funeral, or maybe that was the wake, it's kind of a blur. Maybe it was black with formal sunglasses. And to funerals where I'm expected to go on to the cemetery, I do not  wear good shoes. There used to be a small collection of "firm dinner" dresses, I've disposed of those. The interview suits are long gone. Actually, in today's economy, who's interviewing? But the dresses, the dresses that are particular to a certain kind of event, well, I certainly wouldn't want to pay for those again. Hence the absence of shoulders, the predominance of the style that has no year. On the other hand, my luck, if I'm included in another Orthodox wedding, it'll be summer. As for hats? That's a post all by itself. Or not.

And so it goes. My nephew married young, way too young you might say, but the Army ages you fast. We rarely see him, and my sister wanted everyone to look wonderful, or as wonderful as they could, at the wedding, so that he'd remember us all at our best. My hope was that when he was back on the job he'd concentrate on what he was doing and what the Bad Guys were doing, and not be thinking, "Damn, Uncle Himself had a great necktie at the wedding." So the fussing with the clothes and the endless shopping and picking and fretting were for my sister, whom I dearly love. It paid off, she was beautiful, comfortable, confident, serene. The bride's family looked like they'd just finished harvesting some labor-intensive crop. This could make sense and demand respect in a number of contexts, but they are all teachers or civil servants of one kind or another in northern Wisconsin. I thought I understood the mailman wanting to wear sneakers on his time off, then I realized that the D in RFD means Driving and he did not lug a leather bag from door to door like Great-Great-Great-Uncle Mike. And don't they have irons in Wisconsin?

But I want to say this: for all the times that I think, if my clothes have any importance at all in my life, it's that they reflect who I am, there are many many times when I'm glad that my outfit reflects how I love and respect my friends and family. And yes, the boy is back safely. Boy no longer. And promoted.