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29 Wedding Dress She wants it and she doesn’t want it: the lace neck and sleeves, the waist so tight she’ll need it re-fitted the day before the day. She wants and doesn’t want the pleats and puffs and bows, the veil’s force field guarding her face, the train’s long barge dragging behind, the whole creation so elaborate she must be lowered into it—like a knight onto his horse—with a crane. She wants and doesn’t want to choose her neckline: bertha, bateau, jewel, Queen Anne, décolletage; her sleeves: bishop, balloon, pouf, gauntlet, mutton leg; her silhouette: ballgown, basque, empire, sheath, mermaid; her headpiece: pillbox, derby, wreath, tiara, garden hat. She wants and doesn’t want the four-page guest list, the country club that overlooks the valley like a war party, eager to attack. She wants and doesn’t want the triptych invitations, the florist/psychic who intones, “I envision one black vase per table, each holding a single white rose.“ “I love him,“ she thinks, “but my Zeppelin tapes are melting; my Bowie posters curling into flame. I love him, but Uni High is vanishing like our senior Brigadoon. I love him but my friends are turning into toasters, china place settings, crystal salad bowls.“ She wants and doesn’t want the plane door closing, Tahiti rushing toward her, then dropping behind, Mom in her fuchsia gown starting to stoop, Dad giving her away as white hair falls: a fairy ring around his feet. Even as she pays for it, her dress 30 is yellowing, the wedding pictures aging into artifacts, her children staring at strangers: one in a penguin suit, one in her glory. They can’t believe that living works this way—just as the boy can’t believe what else his pecker will be for; the girl, where babies grow, how they get there, what every month will leak from her. “I want it, but I don’t want it,“ she’ll say. ...

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