I Got Married In a Prom Dress

and other surprising decisions I made while planning my wedding.

Hi, it’s me.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was going to write today. Sometimes the intensity of *gestures at the world* is so overwhelming that my silly little corner of the internet feels pointless. Aren’t there more important things to talk about than my stupid wedding dress?!¹ America’s descent into a reality where our freedom is at stake alarms me. 👈Those are words I never imagined writing in my lifetime, and I feel like an idiot conspiracy theorist for saying them out loud. Feel free to roll your eyes as you read this, I know I sound like a crackpot.

But as I contemplate showing up here today, I remember hearing about the musicians who continued playing as the Titanic sank, both as a comfort and as a way to keep themselves busy, I presume. And I remember watching the HBO series, Station Eleven, which explores the role of art and creativity in a post-pandemic apocalypse. And I think about the scrolling I do on Instagram, how my daily dopamine hit has curated an algorithm that is mostly GenX memes because it’s comforting to remember a simpler time when we read newspapers and sent letters by post and sometimes heard busy signals when we called someone.

So maybe there is room after all for my self-deprecating humor and midlife reflections on early acts of adulting, even if my ramblings about a prom dress won’t save us from societal collapse.

To be clear: I didn’t plan to get married in a prom dress. 

Like most mild mannered ‘80s girls who grew up in a midwestern evangelical church, I dreamed of wearing a white dress and walking down the aisle to Pachelbel or Michael W. Smith, my beloved waiting for me at the altar flanked by candles and formality. I pictured my dad handing me off to my soon-to-be husband, signaling his permission and approval of this exchange in front of everyone. 

This exact scenario was the Purity Culture’s Super Bowl, our long-anticipated celebration of Virginity Excellence after a rigorous battle against lust and temptation. Finally, two opposing sides who competed for months in a game called, How Close to the Line Can We Get Without Crossing It, would come together in ceremony, eat cake, then go off to a motel room where FINALLY a line would be crossed and nobody would get mad about it. 

So anyway, this was the image I had in my mind when I called my mom in April 2001 to tell her Bryan and I were officially engaged. I didn’t follow the announcement with, “...and I’m going to get married in a dress that teenagers wear to an uncomfortable dance with horny boys!” because that would have been ridiculous.

My mom was excited, obviously. “I’m flying out to buy you a dress!” she said, and came to Seattle from Minnesota a month later.

We spent the weekend shopping at bridal stores–of both the outlet and boutique variety. It was exhausting. It’s not like there’s a bridal shop on every corner–we had to put in some time and mileage to hit all the shops. And as it turns out, I like expensive wedding dresses. It was difficult to say no to a Vera Wang dress that looked perfect on me, but $6,000 or whatever² was a ridiculous price to pay for a dress I would only wear once. The problem was, I didn’t like any of the cheaper dresses. My friend’s dad used to say I had champagne taste on a beer budget.

A few things you should know about me as you imagine this experience:

1. I’m frugal about weird things. For example: I’ll spend $150 on dinner out because I enjoy the art of food and hospitality, but I won’t buy a second industrial tape dispenser for $14 even though it will make packing easier for everyone if more than one person can tape boxes closed.

2. I hate trying on clothes. It’s possible I was the only teenager on the planet who hated shopping for school clothes. But as a tomboy with a pear shaped body in the age of skinny, hipless, and straight-silhouette fashion like sweater dresses, nooooooothing looked good on me. 

3. I hate wearing white–it looks terrible on me. I’m blonde with a pale, pinkish complexion, and I don’t get tan. My upper arms look like freshly plucked chicken skin. White does not flatter me.

Are you getting a picture of how much fun I was having?

I remember hitting my limit, the end of my patience, the stick-a-fork-in-me-I’m-done moment. We were in the middle of Downtown Seattle’s shopping district and I blurted out, “WHY DO I HAVE TO WEAR A FREAKIN’ **WEDDING** DRESS TO THIS GODFORSAKEN WEDDING?”

And that was my lightbulb moment–low blood sugar, standing on the corner somewhere near City Center mall (now demolished), pitching a bridal fit: Why DO I have to wear a wedding dress to my wedding?

From there my mom and I marched into a formalwear boutique where I elbowed past a gaggle of teenage girls shopping for prom dresses and found a beautiful sage green dress for $200. This was both in budget and it looked FABULOUS on me!

Twenty-three years ago this month I got married in that dress.

I love this picture of us in those blissful moments right after the ceremony, because I still feel the way I look in this photo. I still adore being married to him. 

But the decision shenanigans didn’t stop there!

On our wedding day, we ditched the church and stuffy music, opting instead for getting married in a park to the music of The Waterboys. We hired my friend to organize the food for super cheap, which I remember being finger food so we didn’t have to rent flatware. But we forgot about the cake, so our guests ended up eating angel food cake and strawberries with their fingers. There was no bathroom at this park, either. Just a port-a-potty behind a hedge.

Visiting Parsons Gardens Park, where we got married, with the kids on our 10th anniversary (2011).

None of this was anything I had imagined my wedding would be like, yet it was so perfectly us.

Stepping out of the box stressed me out, though. Generally speaking, I tend to believe in a mythology of myself as a fear-driven rule follower, worried about doing something wrong or looking stupid. I remember feeling shy as a kid, like an outsider in high school, and aimless as a young adult. I recall that I didn’t like rocking the boat or stirring up trouble, and that I was too afraid to be adventurous or dangerous. 

I believe in this mythology so strongly, that the newsletter you’re reading is called Pretend You’re Good At It, for crying out loud. My default assumption is that everyone else knows what they’re doing, and I’m just out here trying to figure out the basics.

But when I mention this vibe to people who know me in real life, they might cock their head to one side, raise an eyebrow, and say, “Really?” They might question this self-assessment and argue that I seem strong, brave, confident, and pragmatic. I try to convince them otherwise, but they don’t always buy it. 

What do they see in me that I can’t see in myself?

The girl who planned this magical garden wedding didn’t feel brave, strong, and confident. She was worried about the possibility of regret. She agonized over decisions that broke tradition and expectations. She felt the pressure of pleasing her father, with whom she had a complicated relationship, and was torn between advocating for herself or keeping the peace.

I was twenty-eight years old and until that point, I was living in a fishbowl not knowing what water was. Looking back, I recognize the event of my wedding and the associated drama as the first time I really noticed the water I was swimming in and wondered if I liked it. The choices I made to step out of that environment were risky and disruptive to the status quo. Some of the consequences nagged me for years, until I hit the magical middle age where it starts to become clear that trying to please people who can’t be pleased is energy better spent making flower bouquets for friends who enjoy me for who I am.

I’m proud of that twenty-eight year old version of me. She was young and working out who she was apart from everything familiar and comfortable. It took us a while, but she and I finally found each other.

Thanks for reading.

Until next time,

Jen

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What’s happening in my garden this week

I pulled all the beets this week! These are a golden variety, and I’m not sure why I didn’t photograph them roasted and sliced, because they are a gorgeous golden yellow on the inside. Maybe next week. This weekend I’ll sow another crop of beet seeds for a fall harvest.

I cannot tell you how excited I am that my pepper plants are thriving this year! I accidentally stunted all of my starts last year and got zero peppers. No small inconvenience, given the amount of garden space I give my 30+ plants. These are teeny tiny shishito peppers we’ll start enjoying in a few weeks!

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Seattle Area Substack Meetup

Meeting Seattle area Substack writers for the first time! (Dec 2023)

Seattle area

Substack Writers

, please join us for a picnic at the Washington Park Arboretum on Wednesday July 24th from 5-7PM. This will be our THIRD meetup, and if you live in the area, we’d love to see you there! Details » HERE.

1. Presidential immunity and attempted assassinations, just to name a couple.

2. I don’t actually remember how much it cost, but it was more than I could afford!