By Adrienne Wichard-Edds

I’ve always been fascinated by the wedding story of some friends-of-a-friend, Jill and Reed, who, after several months of engagement and wedding-planning for a 200-plus person event, were exhausted from trying to please both families’ disparate wishes. They felt like the wedding had gotten so out of control, it didn’t resemble the couple who was getting married anymore.

With two weeks’ notice, they canceled all their plans, booked a pier at a favorite beach vacation spot, reserved a table for 20 at a restaurant overlooking the water, and told only their best friends and immediate family members that if they wanted to come to the wedding, they had 14 days to book their travel plans.

“But what did you do about your dress?!?” I asked incredulously.

Turns out that Jill, petite and decisive, walked into the Vera Wang boutique at the Watergate in D.C., pulled a sample-sized bridesmaid dress in ivory off the rack, and purchased it on the spot. A local, reliable tailor fitted the straps and adjusted the length for her within the week.

It has always baffled me that, in at least half of the traditional bridal salons I visited on my own wedding-dress quest, I was assigned a salesperson, ushered to my dressing room, and shown a selection of dresses from a secreted-away stock room that my shopgirl imagined might be to my liking.

Are you kidding me? I’ve been picking out my own clothes since I was in fourth grade; you’ve just met me and you’re trying to choose the dress of my dreams based on the two minutes’ worth of exchanged pleasantries?

Beyond that, I was barely allowed in the dressing room by myself (important side note: by the second boutique, I learned to wear full-coverage underwear and a strapless bra). These people clearly didn’t trust me with their wares — either to browse the racks or to slip the items on over my head all by myself.

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