Follia

The MSN Italian to English translation says that the word Follia means 'complete irrationality.' It is also a "feminine" adjective. How perfect that I have actually reached a state of complete irrationality at this point, and all because of a bridesmaid's dress.

Not to belabor the subject, but life is bad enough when you know you're the fat maid and that none of the dresses are going to look that great on you. Let's face it. The bridal industrial complex has an image to sell. I think, when most women come face to face with that image, a fair number of them don't see themselves in it. I know I don't. But even women I know with gorgeous, nothing-to-be-ashamed-of figures fall prey to the lure of perfection. I would love nothing more than to be a perfect woman with a perfect figure for this weekend, but I've got some curves (or, calling a spade a spade, batwings and pooches) that need assistance.

In addition to having my dress literally re-made, because the three-sizes too big version was still too small in the chest, I've had to procure a number of frightening undergarments in order to, shall we say, smooth things out. I've got two different versions of the undercarriage model - one from Spanx and one from Dr. Rey's. The only real difference is that one has an additional giant panty installed in it, and I can certainly see how that would come in handy. I do not make this stuff up. I only report on it.

I have also purchased something called an adhesive bra. I will spare you the details of this monstrosity, except to say that I am unsure of its effectiveness on a hot, humid day in northwest Philadelphia. But I really hope the hotel has an engineer, or at the very least, a mechanic on call. Because it is going to be all jacked up underneath that dress.

Speaking of which...on my way to pick up the Bionic Dress yesterday, having gone through three fittings and seen the original Electric Hemorrhoid transformed into a charming taffeta and pleated chiffon deli meat casing with a ruffled hem and a back bow, I was, shall we say, detained by the Law in New Rochelle. Apparently, even when you're talking on your speakerphone, you can't pick it up to hang up the call. So, I've got my first moving violation. Ever. No points, but a blot on my eternally perfect driving record. And yes, I actually cried in front of the cop, which in addition to making me feel like a complete loser, resulted in me showing up to pick up my dress looking like a cross between a stewed beet and a hot, snotty pot of snuffling shame. This was in addition to having attended a funeral earlier in the day which was so upsetting and unjust that I can't even talk about it. Overall, not a good day.

To top things off, today I called Follia, the White Plains criminal enterprise operating as a bridal salon, to find out where the hell my shawl is since I have to leave in less than 48 hours. Follia called me back to let me know that it arrived. So I trekked down Mamaroneck Avenue, actually thinking sort of lightheartedly about getting a fruit smoothie or a sugar-free cookie at MeMe's, the awesome new bakery across the street. When I arrived, and ascended the stairway to complete irrationality, I was informed that it was going to cost me another $40 (cash only) to get my shawl, due to a so-called "rush charge" that I was never informed about.

Sorry for the bad grammar, I'm just all mad now.

Now, you know and I know that any decent business would give you a heads-up. And that they'd let you know about additional charges at, oh, say, the time of purchase. But no, with less than two days before having to leave for the wedding, this is the story I'm getting. The shawl actually comes packaged like one of those $2 pashminas you get in midtown. And she had it carefully packaged for me in a wrinkled, reused Stop and Shop bag. Yep: stay classy.

So having paid $64 for this piece of fabric, which is necessary for me not only to cover the batwings but also to preserve some small sense of personal modesty as I am not a wearer sleeveless or backless garments due to some religious reasons, it is now going to end up costing $104. For a piece of fabric. Seriously.

At this point, all thoughts of smoothies and cookies had flown out of my head. I was left feeling a hot, sick sense of rage. Rage that was massing red and purple and fuschia behind my eyes. Rage that matches the color of the dress. I had achieved, beyond all expectations, a state of Follia.

So I asked if I could come back with the cash tomorrow. I felt I would need time to gather my thoughts and words, because if I was forced to hand over the money just then, there might have been a homicide. Or at the very least, as my father used to say, a practical demonstration in police brutality.

And that's the story. I have some idea of the telling-off this bridal salon criminal is getting tomorrow. But in all seriousness, only my deep and abiding love for my friend the bride is keeping me sane. Because if I didn't love and respect and cherish my friendship with her so much, I would seriously consider jail to be a viable option this weekend. The honor of standing by her side as she continues her beautiful life journey is really what's kept me going - through the fittings, through the freakshows, through the Follia.

And so, on to Saturday evening. The big mazel. I can't wait.