Three weeks til our wedding and Gareth is all smugly sorted with his kilt. Meanwhile I’m sitting around like Cinderella, waiting for the fairy godmother to show up with a frock for the ball so I don’t have to go to the shops.
At least when I do go, I’ll know what to look for. About five years ago when I was lounging in my life of trackpants, depression and unemployment, The Mothership decided to cheer me up by Getting My Colours Done. She dragged me along to the Women’s Weekly Craft Fair at Canberra’s Exhibition Park.
Amidst the cross stitch, teddybear and decoupage stalls lurked a lady with prim lips and clanky bracelets. She peered at me under the fluorescent lights then wafted a rainbow of scarves around my face to determine which shades suited me best.
“Right darling,” she purred. “With your orange hair, brown eyes and pale, on-the-brink-of-death complexion, you are definitely a Warm Autumn.”
I gave her a Cold Winter glare. She flicked her wrist like a magician and produced a little fan of plastic strips, in graduated colours like Dulux paint samples. “These are the colours you must stick to when out buying shoes or lipsticks or suits for your non-existent job interviews. This,” she paused dramatically, “Is the Warm Autumn palette.”
At one end of the spectrum we had dirt brown, which wandered along into cack brown, cack green, khaki, diluted mud and so on to BEIGE. The message was clear: You look good in poo!
I am starting to get worried that I’m not that worried about not having a wedding dress. I’m also worried that other people are worried that I’m not worrying.
Example: Gareth’s lovely Mum’s innocent enquiry: “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
“Ahh, not yet.”
“Oh. Do you think you’ll wear a dress? Have I ever seen you in a skirt before?”
“Hey, I HAVE skirts.”
My paranoid translation: She thinks I’m a lesbian just using her son for the visa.
Anyway, if anyone knows the best place for poo-hued frocks, please let me know.