Fingers made of Faille

I have a wedding dress pattern in the floor.

I pulled out the instructions, printed on paper that reminds me of penmanship paper from the third grade.  The smell and feel of the brown paper brings back memories of heavy concentration, a pencil in my hand, and the awareness of the rewards for a job well-done.

Except this time, it's not a scratch and sniff sticker.

I've got to be honest:  I'm overwhelmed.  I'm wondering if I'll do the easier thing:  walk into a boutique, deal with an overly eager salesperson, pull on dress after dress in a hall full of mirrors.  Yes, it would be easier.

It rained most of the day on Saturday, alternating between drizzle and heavy fog.  I watched the drops off the overhang outside my kitchen windows.  And then I decided to go.  I went to an expensive fabric store on the south side, where I met an overly eager salesperson.

I recited the list of possible fabric options:  georgette, lightweight crepe, and poorly pronounced "faille".  She lead me around the store, pulling them out.  It was good to finally get fabric in my hands, to feel the texture of each.  I had to imagine it gathered up around my waist, how it would fall near the ground in a hem.

Like I said:  I'm overwhelmed.

The saleslady (Helen?) asked me what pattern--and I quickly answered "McCalls 5806".  I surprised myself.  How often does someone quickly provide a four digit pattern number?  Especially someone that mispronounces faille?

We pulled it out of the tall metal file cabinet.  To my relief, she said the pattern wouldn't be difficult.  "Especially if your grandma helps you".  Of course.

Several mannequins in the store modeled beautiful, handmade dresses.  I circled them like a sculpture, taking in all of the details.  Handmade!  The lady in the corner was giving a consultation, and Helen told me she made the dresses.

The lady had the aura of creation, of confidence, of experience.  Her blonde hair fell around her like a veil.  How fitting.

So, here's to weekends.  Here's to rainy Saturdays, and dreams of dresses yet to be made.