Oli gets Married, Chapter 1

Some of the most important times of the actual wedding day are the days before it. Last minute errands, girls begin to primp, the walk through is performed, and then the largest monstrosity of all, known to the general masses as Rehearsal Dinner.

A rehearsal dinner usually isn’t a monstrosity; just leave it to me to make it one.

But, I digress. Let’s take it from the top.

Pre-Wedding Thursday, I requested the day off. I did not get the day off. I did get extra hours, and would be stuck working until almost 10 that night. To get an accurate idea of my mood that day, carefully sound out the words, “piss and vinegar.” Not a happy camper.

It was a marathon. Got up extra early for my final dress fitting, and did my own personal cartwheel dance when the seamstress took it in one last time. Not much, but what a difference from months ago. I actually looked at myself in the mirror too, something I’d refused to do the first time I was acquainted with that dress, and - dare I say it? - I felt glamorous.

My boobs did not feel glamorous. They felt limp and weak. My deranged psychotic jellyfish were providing no pick me up at all, but instead just stuck to my girls like deadweights.

Solution: expensive Italian lingerie. Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing good lingerie can’t fix. Nothing. Even if all you’re wearing is that wonderful combo of sweats and sneakers, lacy under things will make you feel like a diva. Trust me on that.

My sister was getting married, I was going to be in a stunning gown, and my breasts would be hanging down to my knees. Which of these three just doesn’t belong? I admitted defeat and, a half hour before starting work that Thursday, jetted across town to a fabulous lingerie shop.

Fabulous means fine, gorgeous creations enhancing your best features to make them better. Fabulous also means expensive. Oli tossed an amazing La Perla black corset at me and wouldn’t you know, it looked devastatingly sexy *and* did the job. My girls breathed a collective sigh of relief, and my low cut dress sang glory hallelujah!

My budget didn’t. Price tag of Italian corset: $260

Fuck.

Glamour and cleavage certainly aren’t easy on the wallet. Well, your sister only gets married once, right?

My Mastercard wailed like a screaming banshee in heat, but my inner glam consoled me: La Perla is not only great for evening gowns, but extracurricular bedroom activities. Note to Self: dig through drawers for matching sexy black undies.

After a very long day at work, I traipsed my way back home, (very gently) tossed my computer bag to the side, then tried on my corset, shoes, jewellery and finally, maid of honour gown. All shimmied up, I clopped my way to a full length mirror.

Wowsers. Who was that girl, looking back at me? Not the same one who started writing this blog, that’s for sure. Moms passed by, did a double take and said, “Oh sweetie, you look gorgeous!”

Gorgeous wasn’t the first word to pop into my head when I saw myself like that, but not bad at all was definitely up there. Way, way up. And while I can’t say, “I did it” just yet, I can definitely say, “I’m doing it.”

What’s more, I’m loving the ride. Truly.