The Sewist Buys a Wedding Dress

Two months.

Two months! In precisely sixty days, Dr. Sam and I are going to trot down the aisle and tie the proverbial knot. Woohoo! Quite frankly, I've been an insouciant bride. We're having a simple wedding: Sunday brunch, lovely low key little venue, lots of balloons and flowers and bunting. Thanks to a close held hatred of rigmarole, I've officially cut out a lot of the typical American wedding shenanigans. There will be no DJ or releasing of the doves or—just kill me now—garter toss. Marriage is the important thing, not having a gigantic sparkly princess day of wonder. That's never been my dream.

Except, of course, for The Dress. The very small list of important Mary concerns in planning this shindig were, in order: Sam, the dress, cake. Since the dear professor is consistently the most lovely man alive and the (three) cakes are being made—fondant free!—by my longtime favorite bakery, the dress absorbed my worries. So, so many worries.

As a sewist, there was one question to be answered. Will I make the dress myself? 

It's a completely legit consideration, especially in this day and age. Not only are modern dresses hilariously over priced but they are, as I quickly realized from bridal magazines, remarkably homogeneous. If you want a strapless A-line white dress, no problem! The shops have rows and rows of neatly hung poofy confections for strap-haters. However, when you start swaying away from the herd? Fat chance. The section with sleeves is minuscule, colors other than white are unheard of, and no one who's anyone gets married in a short dress.

For sewists, this is enraging. One trip to the bridal shoppe—they can never just be a simple shop, kittens—is enough to start even the most sainted bride plotting the doom of Badgley, Vera, and that hawker of polyester swill, David himself. Sewists are used to taking matters in their own hands. If a pattern doesn't have sleeves, add them. If you hate the feel of flammable, melt-prone fabrics against your skin, don't use them. Sartorial beliefs, we have them in spades! All it took were a couple of post-engagement internet browsing sessions for me to know the usual bridal shop was not my destiny.

So, I compiled a list. What was my dream dress, exactly? If I couldn't find it, sewing was a viable option, so I could afford to be mindbogglingly specific. Thanks to vintage fashion catalogs, a vision quickly coalesced.

 Note: Sam, if you're reading this, stop right now! Your superstitious side demands it. 

Mary's Dream Dress: A Bulleted List

• Bottom-of-knee length
• Lace bodice
• Sleeves, preferably 3/4
• Button back. Not a zipper with buttons over it, either. Silk-covered buttons with working loops or death!
• Color featured somehow
• Layered circle skirt for a 1950s silhouette
• Natural materials, preferably silks
• Lower neckline

Surprise! This dress doesn't exist at David's Bridal. Initially, I considered going with one of the oft-pinned, retro dresses of Dolly Couture, but I had serious doubts about their quality. Reviews were spotty, their standard offerings are all polyester, and no design perfectly fit my vision. Sewing was looking like my best option. And yet...

Y'all, I'm going to be straight up here. I didn't want to sew my own wedding dress. Down that path lived stress and obsessively washing my hands while sewing and time-consuming muslin fittings. People kept asking me if I had a "clean room" to store it in, while I sewed. Fuck that. I can barely keep myself clean, much less my sewing room. Someday, I would love to make a complete couture gown for myself, but that day will come when there are no dissertations to finish or moves to make. So, I started finding vintage patterns, but dreading what my autumn would be like.

Enter Pinterest. On one of my random wedding dress pictures binges, I typed in the words "short British wedding dress." The lovely designers across the pond are much more open to retro designs and lengths other than floor. I'd stumbled across a handful of designers with gorgeous not-quite-right-but-almost gowns.

Then, I found her. Joanne Fleming, an up-and-coming wedding dress designer out of Brighton. She is famous for her craftsmanship, use of luxury French fabrics, and gorgeous twists on classic designs. If I wanted a bias-cut column gown, she had twenty amazing options. If I wanted colored lacy confections, there were samples aplenty. And if I wanted a button-back, lace and organza, knee-length fifties delight with sleeves and a low neckline? Oh, that's called the Annie dress.

Picture sources: Joanne Fleming Design Blog

Here's a link to my favorite real bride shoot, featuring an Annie dress. Lovely, no?

Mine, custom made to my measurements and specifications, is shipping out next week. Next week! Yes, I have been ridiculously squealing "Wedding Dress!" at odd times, since getting this news. Sam is temporarily deaf from all the high pitched squees.

The only alterations I made were to sub in a blush pink back-bow sash and coordinating pink silk petticoat binding. It is lovely, it is wonderful, and I'm not slaving away in my sewing room, cursing the day lace was invented. Joy! 

What do you think, friends? Would you sew your own wedding dress or go with an indie designer/seamstress? I'd love to hear about what you chose for your own. Sure, it's just a dress, but it's probably the only one we'll be asked about for the rest of our lives. It's also worth noting that one of my favorite bloggers, Mel from Poppykettle, is much braver than I and taking the plunge on making her own. It's sure to be a gorgeous, fascinating process.

Note: If you're as fabulously nosy about weddings as I am, my planning board on Pinterest is filled with lovely flowers and dresses. Gawk away! I would.
  
Note two: If you kind of hate the hoopla surrounding weddings and would rather read feminist ramblings about its annoyances, my alter ego has been writing a series called "The Apathetic Bride's Guide to Weddings." It's both funny and curmudgeonly.