Was in Boston this weekend for Gamble Mansion's bridal brunch - a sunday event where brides-to-be and their family and friends check out the Mansion and all things bridal (flowers, food, music, dresses, you get the idea). I had a table with my books on it, and a prime view of all the action. It was a blast watching all these excited women gazing around the room trying to picture themselves sweeping in wearing a beautiful white gown while the orchestra plays some romantic tune with deep meaning to her and her betrothed. The food looked amazing (I never got a chance to sample, was too stuffed from dinner the night before when we celebrated my friend Chris' birthday). The music by Four Guys in Tuxes was lovely (and, when I asked the guitar player why there were only three guys in tuxes he said I was the only one who noticed...which I found hard to believe). And then the models from The Altered Bride came out modeling the latest in bridal fashions. And that's when I had flashbacks.

So here's my dirty little secret - I modeled wedding dresses in high school. Yes, a sixteen year old donning Pricilla gowns and cathedral-length veils. It was a blast. Like playing dress-up without the fear of getting caught. You were supposed to look like you were enjoying yourself, and, hey, who doesn't love ten yards of raw silk trailling behind you on the catwalk. At the shows we also had men in tuxes (yes, in reality I know nobody cares about the tux, it's all about the gown, but we needed some men there to keep us from falling over the crinolines and trains).

Anyway, I showed up for one show and discovered that I'd actually be walking down the aisle with someone I knew - a guy I went to middle school with before we each went off to our respective private schools. Now, we were reuniting four years later in bridal gown and tux, floral bouquet clutched in my hand, as we strolled to the wedding march. Quite surreal. Probably cured him of marriage forever. But not me. When I'm home alone I think about the carefully preserved Vera Wang sitting in my closet and come really close to slipping into it. If only I wasn't afraid of the Fed Ex guy showing up. There's just no way to explain that without sounding really, really pathetic. Besides, who would do my hair?