A Tale of Two Dresses

The easy part of any wedding, as far as I’m concerned, is picking out the cake. When I was getting married, in the 1980s, a friend recommended I visit a now-long-vanished Manhattan institution called the New York Exchange for Women’s Work. It was founded some 135 years ago by a pair of socialites as a way for Civil War widows to earn a modest living by selling handicrafts and baked goods. At the time of my engagement, the baked goods from that genteel institution were made by two maiden ladies from New Jersey, nearly blind but brilliant at wedding cakes. You had to book months in advance, and they only made one kind: classic white, with white icing around and between the layers, and beautiful edible flowers cascading down. Perfect and perfectly delicious. 

Things have changed since then; we are now living in the era of “Cake Boss,” and the choices are dizzying. Still, it is a truth universally acknowledged that you can have almost as much fun auditioning cakes as you had auditioning husbands. Go around to various bakers and taste their cupcakes: Try the icings, dip into the fillings, sample the edible flowers.

So now you have the partner, and you have the cake — and you are ready for the main event, which is, of course, the dress.

That is where things can get complicated.

I got married late-ish in life, at 36. So, realistically, I was not looking to be a Disney princess. No sparkly tulle confection, no train, no bustle, no tiara, no bows, no ruffles for me. As young girls we dream of that princess thing, but did I really want all that Lady Di busy-ness? Nope. 

As a somewhat vintage bride, I decided to shop for something vintage. It suited me: In general, my wardrobe is a little bit vintage and a lot “Annie Hall.” So I invited my soon-to-be stepdaughter, then 16, to come along for a fun vintage-shopping expedition.

Brides who like the experience of a zillion choices and a lot of pampering — who can see themselves, in the manner of “Say Yes to the Dress,” playing dress-up for an audience of opinionated mothers, sisters, and best friends — will probably feel most comfortable at a dedicated bridal store, but I was delighted at the prospect of exploring all the vintage-clothing emporiums that dotted the city in the early 1980s. 

I made a list. I planned the route. Armed with a little blue-and-white-covered notebook of wedding ideas and inspirations, clippings, photos, random thoughts, addresses, and phone numbers — the early 1980s version of a smart phone — we set out. We went to the most expensive shop first. A wedding is many women’s (and men’s) only chance for sartorial extravagance, so why not?

The store in question was on the Upper East Side, a tiny jewel box of wonders. The thing about vintage is that you never know what will be unearthed. And everything, of course, is one-of-a-kind. Even if you find that just-right dress, it might be totally wrong in fit. We dove right in and started eliminating. Slinky? No. Super-glamourous? No, it was to be an afternoon wedding. Big skirts with crinolines? Just not my style.

We were weeding things out — the word they use now is “curating” —enthusiastically, tossing aside anything the wrong shape, wrong length, wrong color . .  . yes, no, no, no, maybe, no . . . when there it was. Who could have imagined that I would love the peach cotton flapper dress with white beading all over it? 

“Great Gatsby!” I thought, “that's my dress.”

It looked good on me. It fit. I would get pale stockings and cream-colored vintage looking shoes with Louis heels and a pointy toe — Norma Kamali had them, I knew. I’d wear a ring of daisies and bachelor buttons in my hair, flapper-style.

Our grand search was over in one hour. 

When my stepdaughter and I got home, I jumped on the phone to my maid of honor. It was she who had set up the blind date that had lead me to this moment.

“I have the dress,” I announced. “Now you need to go get something.”

But what could she wear that would look good next to me, with my new/old peach flapper dress and my daisies in my hair? 

We decided to take a field trip. 

Since, really, only another vintage dress would look appropriate, we drove out to Bucks County, Pa., where I knew of another vintage-clothing shop with a large inventory. With high hopes, we crossed the Hudson, bringing along my peach beauty, the pale stockings, and the Norma Kamali dream shoes.

My pal tried on everything that might have been worn by a flapper. The shop owner brought out every possible piece that might go with the peach beauty. Together, my friend and the owner even wandered into the white-dress section, crossing the boundary that usually prohibits the supporting players in the wedding party from wearing white.

While they were deep into their search, I roamed around just randomly shopping. I tried on a long velvet hobble skirt (how did they walk in those things?) and scads of hats: fascinators, hats with feathers, and a few 1940s dinner dresses  that came with amusing little cocktail hats. I was having fun, but my friend? Not so much. She had just about given up in despair.

And something completely unexpected happened.

Taking one final ramble through the racks at my maid of honor’s side, I found, hiding in plain sight . . .  another wedding dress!

This one wasn’t flapper, it was Gibson Girl. 

Who would have guessed?

Well, I guess I could have guessed.

My favorite painting in the whole world is John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Mr. & Mrs. Isaac Newton Phelps Stokes” (1897) — Mrs. Phelps Stokes, posing jauntily with a straw boater hat in her hand seems to me to be another, earlier Annie Hall — and for me, the spirit of the painting glowed on that hanger.

Forget the peach beauty. This was my wedding dress. I knew it the moment I put it one with the pale stockings and the Kamali shoes.

I bought the dress. 

I got married in the dress. 

I wore a boater with a navy and white polkadot bow. Instead of bachelor buttons in my hair, bachelor buttons were worn in my husband's lapel and carried in my bridal bouquet (where they went perfectly with the daisies I had always wanted). I walked down the aisle of the Chantry of Grace Church in Greenwich Village on the arm of my father, who had bachelor buttons in his lapel, too. It was a lovely day for a wedding. May 15, 1982. 

We held the reception in the SoHo loft of very dear artist friends. The white cake from the New York Exchange for Women's Work was set on nine square feet of sod grass, fresh from the garden center, and it looked fabulous.

My maid of honor did finally get a dress, of course — but, as we didn't want to risk another vintage-buying trip, we had a friend custom-make it.

And that perfect peach number? I wore it to two other weddings. 

I am still married, and I still have both dresses. U