My friend recently divorced her loose-cannon of a husband and moved into her own apartment. Packing, she came across the most confounding wardrobe item: her wedding dress. The Carolina Herrara, custom fit, beautiful dress was a show stopper at her wedding. I couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks post-nuptial, and I don’t even care that much about weddings. But I care about dresses.

So over Christmas when I asked her what she had done with the dress she informed me that she was selling it on eBay, I screeched, “What! For how much?” She told me her asking price was way below the retail value of the spotless dress. “I want it!” I said immediately. “Would you sell it to me?” She cocked her head to the side, and replied, “Why on earth would you want my wedding dress from my failed marriage?” I went on to explain that I know the dress doesn’t make the marriage, that I double triple heart the dress and that it would be an unorthodox salute to our friendship. She mulled it over and then agreed to letting me try it on.

Excited, I ran inside to tell some friends who responded with absolute horror. “You can’t wear someone’s wedding dress! You need to get your own wedding dress,” said my friend, obviously terrified by A) the dress’ unlucky stigma and B) the “fact” I would be jinxing myself forever. Because who buys wedding dresses when they don’t even have a boyfriend? I asked my parents what they thought about purchasing the dress. They agreed that it was worth the purchase. “If you change your mind, you can always sell it,” my mom replied. (Obviously we aren’t the superstitious types.)

But then tonight I got all paranoid. What if I buy the dress then never get married and have to move to Miami and wear white pants and hot pink lipstick all the time and smoke cigarettes out of those Cruella De Ville sticks and diet on extra dirty Grey Goose martinis? And worst of all, become an eternal cougar? What if that happens? I won’t be able to say 100% for sure that the dress was not to blame for my love life’s demise. Or, it could actually be worse…

Emma Dinzebach

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