I have glorious news. Glorious, I tell you. Yesterday, I had a very awkward experience. (Duh.) But! But, but, but. 'Twas not me, this time, who was the awkward one--in fact, I played the role of Confused Normal Person Somewhat Disturbed By Awkward Occurrence this go-round. And this was a certainly pleasant but also mildly disconcerting change of pace, frankly. I kept doubting myself, wondering if I only thought it was an awkward situation because I was unknowingly being awkward and making the other person feel awkward for my being awkward at what I mistakenly thought was their awkwardness. (Go with me here.)
I was at the David's Bridal here in Manhattan, ordering my bridesmaid's dress for my friend Sarah's wedding this May. This was not my first time at the rodeo, either--I'd been to this same David's Bridal last spring, when I'd had to order a bridesmaid dress for a previous wedding. (Also, speaking of funny yet entirely meaningful expressions: I have created one. It trips off the tongue nicely, I do think: "Don't poop in the punch before you get to party!" Meaning, of course, that one shouldn't pooh-pooh an event that appears undesirable to attend without giving it a fair chance. I really like the alliteration I created. It'll be sweeping the nation soon, I'm sure.)
But back to David's Bridal. The saleswoman assigned to me, Denouda (I remember the exact spelling because I was entirely distracted by how differently her name was actually pronounced than what I would have initially guessed--potentially awkward occurrence avoided! Props to me.) Denouda grabbed my gown for me to try on and then led me to one of the large, mirrored dressing rooms that seem ubiquitous in bridal salons. She then unlocked a door to one of them, hung the dress up on the wall, and then asked me what size bra I wore, so she could go grab me a strapless one, to ensure accurate dress fit. I quickly assured her that I didn't need to borrow a bra, because I'd packed one specially for the dress-trying-on occasion. Denouda seemed pleased by this turn of events. A little too pleased, perhaps, seeing as she didn't take this opportunity to exit the dressing room. We both faced each other for a moment, my eyes darting all over the enclosed space we were now locked in together, each of us waiting for the other person to make her next move. It was...painfully awkward.
Now, I know that bridal salons have these extra-large dressing rooms for the very reason that a bride-to-be often needs an assistant dresser to help her in and out of ornate, heavy, and difficult-to-button-up gowns and even undergarments. But...I wasn't trying on bridal gowns. I was putting on an above-the-knee strapless bridesmaid dress that zipped up the back. I literally needed only to step into it, yank it above my hips, and then zip it up. Really, it was a one-person procedure. I thought that maybe Denouda was waiting for some sort of sign to exit the dressing room, so I made a move as if to unbutton my jeans.
Nope. Didn't faze her. She remained in the room, smiling brightly. I paused for a moment, wondered briefly if I were on an episode of Candid Camera, and then decided that maybe this was just a New-York-bridal-salon thing that I'd somehow managed to escape the last time around. So I took a deep breath and proceeded to strip for Denouda.
It was an odd, odd situation; she simply watched me take off my seventeen winter layers of clothing (coat, scarf, hat, gloves, jacket, cardigan, tee shirt, jeans, tights) and then wrangle myself into the bridesmaid dress. She offered no help whatsoever, even when I very awkwardly had to zip up the back of the dress myself. (But that was only being awkward in a physical sense. Doesn't count as real awkwardness for me, in this instance. I WAS THE NORMAL ONE, THIS TIME AROUND.) Denounda just stood there, watching me. And still smiling.
The rest of my David's Bridal experience went normally, I suppose. The dress was ordered and purchased, and Denouda and I parted ways. I do fervently hope, though, that she is not working on the day I come back to pick up and try on my dress. Or I at least hope that it's warmer--less of a strip show, I suppose.
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