#Rewearthedress

In August of 2014, hubs and I celebrated 6 years of marriage, opened a new business, and had made it through 9 months of raising twins while co-habitating with family. We hadn’t been out on a date since the girls had come home from the NICU, and barely had free time with each other.

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While running my hands over the many garment bags hanging from the rolling wardrobe in the basement, I saw the thick, white vinyl that protected my wedding dress. It was such a lovely dress. Simple, no frills. I wondered if it still fit. I remembered how I went shopping for it by myself, and bought the sample off the rack at the bridal boutique to save money. After alterations, I STILL ended up paying the equivalent of several car payments for something I would only wear for a few hours. Why did I do that again? And it’s pretty widely agreed upon that the wedding dress shouldn’t be worn again. So, essentially this is a very expensive, single use item. Like a very elaborate up-do or makeup job that looks great for the night and comes off by morning. Some people would argue that a wedding dress is a valuable keepsake, or heirloom. They would preserve their dress (which of course costs more money,) to pass on to family. But I have found that most dresses end up taking up valuable space, and people are left with a relic that no one has the guts to donate or repurpose. Or they don’t know how. Some people have imagined beautiful ways to reuse heirloom dresses, or display them for all to see, (check out some of those ideas here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/danielle-tate/10-creative-things-to-do-_b_5194277.html ,) but not everyone has the space or time to do that. So I thought to myself, why can’t I wear this again?

From this thought came #rewearthedress. Because on the one hand, it’s just a dress. Wearing it to a restaurant (or around the house, or letting your kids play in it or with it, or drawing on it…)lessens the pomp and circumstance. It makes a statement about how silly it is to place so much value and importance on a dress. It’s a piece of clothing, just like a shirt or a pair of jeans. It’s amazing that entire television shows are devoted to wedding dresses. There are some people who place more importance on the dress than finding the right person to wear it with. But on the other hand, it’s a (sometimes pricey,) wearable memento from a very special day. And it’s one hell of a conversation starter. My dress is a very tangible reminder of the day hubs and I made vows to one another and danced all night with our closest friends and family. I enjoy telling people about our great party and my great partner. And it is fun! It made me feel pretty and a little impressed with myself that I could clean up and get into it after months of wearing pajamas and nursing babies around the clock.

I made a plan to wear my wedding dress again for our 6th anniversary dinner date-no matter where we decided to go. To my delight, it still fit-probably a little better than it had pre-twins thanks to nursing. Hubs, being the roll-with-it kind of person that he is, was all for the idea, (one of the many reasons I married him!) We made plans to eat at a clubby, local sushi place, and had babysitting all lined up.

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Three days before our anniversary, a slight eye irritation was beginning to really bother me. It seemed I was developing a pesky stye. Hot compresses were applied, and I skipped makeup. The day before our date, my eye was so swollen shut, I had to go to the doctor. I was told I needed antibiotics, and possibly a trip to the ER. Aweeeesooooome. It was pretty disappointing. Murphy’s Law in full effect. We debated rescheduling for another weekend, but waiting weeks to get out alone for a few hours to celebrate an anniversary happening at that moment, just didn’t feel right. So, I improvised. I grabbed some sunglasses and a fedora, and wore the dress anyway. We never actually made it to sushi, either. By the time we were out of the house and made our way to the restaurant, my face was puffy and uncomfortable and shaded by sunglasses, so we decided a quiet, well-lit, casual meal would be better. So, we went to our local taco spot and tucked my dress under the small, wooden table where hot sauce sits in a condiment caddy made out of an old six pack box. We ordered nachos and tacos and sat face to face (sunglasses,) and had our first childless conversation, with the lights on, out of our home. Hubs held my hand across the table and told me I looked beautiful, and afterwards we visited the shaved ice shop.

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The whole outing happened so fast that we drove around just to stay out a little longer with each other. We talked about our babies a lot, but also about our wedding day, and life before the girls and plans for the future. It was really nice. I told hubs that if the dress still fits, I’d like to wear it every year on our anniversary-even if next year we decide to stay in. Why not? I’d love to see more people wear their wedding dresses again. Hell, even if that dress has outlasted the marriage, don’t let it just sit in the closet! (Check out what this guy did! http://pulptastic.com/wife-leaves-husband-gets-little-creative-wedding-dress-see-hilarious-results/ ) It gets people remembering, and talking. People perk up when they talk about their wedding day and start to tell the stories of how they met and the people that were there along the way. I read somewhere that taking photos on anniversary vacations in the wedding dress is a thing.  Maybe for our 25th. 🙂 #rewearthedress

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Cross Country Remembered: Part 1

Since 2003 I have driven across the United States about a dozen times.

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Photograph of Art Bell by Ian Allen. http://www.ianallenphoto.com/Art-Bell-for-Time

Well, I drove about 200 miles in total.  Hubs did almost all of the driving, and I was co-captain, ready with a Red Bull for my pilot or a jab to the ribs at 3AM through a star speckled stretch of Arizona. We chased Coast to Coast AM as it faded in and out of radio stations while we propelled through the long black stretches of interstate, pondering our place in the vastness, listening to the intriguing discussions of George Noory and Art Bell.

Ian Allen's photograph of Art Bell for Time. http://www.ianallenphoto.com/Art-Bell-for-Time

Photograph of Art Bell by Ian Allen. http://www.ianallenphoto.com/Art-Bell-for-Time

I imagined Bell broadcasting from somewhere in the middle of Nevada from a steel base resembling the UFO from Flight of the Navigator.  Callers would connect with the radio hosts  and describe their latest alien abduction stories or delve into government conspiracy theories.  Occasionally we would tune in to Unshackled, the Christian radio drama, or begin a grand rotation of CDs, many of which were mixes scrawled with my handwriting and hearts all over them.

The Explorer hummed with gentle thuds of thousands of insects being collected like snow through the darkness. We smelled worn-in and earthy and our fingers were sticky with jerky and trail mix. When I absolutely couldn’t keep my eyelids from drooping I’d drift to sleep and wake up, “still in Tennessee,” or “still in Texas.” When I saw hubs’ eyes glaze over, we’d pull off the highway and slink past wide loads and semis, pulling in to well-lit parking spaces, armed with a hunting knife tucked in the driver side door. The doors would lock and the heat blasted, but then I’d pull coats and blankets around my knees and over my head after the last bits of warmth evaporated. Hubs could sleep straight up, no pillow, head back, mouth open and snoring. I’d wake, groggy from the biting cold, or snoring, or because the parking lot lamp lights were blaring down on me for all to see.

When my bladder was ready to burst, I’d clutch my bag and look menacingly into the still dark, too quiet of dawn, trying to imagine looking crazier than anything or anyone that might try to approach me as I made my way to the rest room. Once inside, I kicked open every stall door and checked around every corner. Using rest stop facilities were careful balancing acts of not letting anything touch the counters, walls, or floor of the bathrooms. I used elbows and feet and bottles of hand sanitizer, managing to brush my teeth, wash my face, and wipe down my armpits with some paper towels and soap. All of my toiletries were safely tucked in bags or pockets, away from communal surfaces. During the day I’d be interrupted by women entering the restrooms, clearly on shorter trips,  who usually looked much more embarrassed than I did at the sight of my road-grooming routine.

In the mornings, the windshield would heat up and warm the whole car, and soon we’d be driving, windows down, searching for a pancake and eggs kind of breakfast. There were waffle houses and local diners, IHOPs, Cracker Barrels, and rest stop gas stations that sold spotted bananas and granola bars.

The most southern West/East running Interstate.

I-10 is the most southern West/East                   running Interstate.

Just north of the I-10 is Interstate 40.  It passes through the panhandle of Texas

Just north of the I-10 is Interstate 40. It passes through the panhandle of Texas

Interstate 70 passes through the middle of the U.S

Interstate 70 passes through the middle of the U.S

Just north of I-70 is Interstate 80.

Just north of I-70 is Interstate 80.

Mornings meant so many possibilities. It also meant looking like a hobo in broad daylight. Greasy hair was accepted on the road though. On one particular trip we detoured to see the Grand Canyon. The drive off our main course was much longer than I had expected. We had been two days in the car already, I had my period and was crampy and grumpy. I wanted nothing more than a shower and a warm bed. When we finally arrived at the rim of the huge expanse of the Grand Canyon, I lumbered out of the car, threw a hat on top of my head and covered my face with sunglasses. Although we had arrived, it felt like we hadn’t. It was too big to take in. There was an impossible amount of space in front of us.

This is amazing! Ok, lets leave.

This is amazing! Ok, lets leave.

The striped walls of rocks stacked infinitely until they faded to a washed out pink and gray as far as the eye could see. People were specks all along the landscape and some took clever photos pretending to stand on the cliff’s edge. We stayed for maybe an hour and a half, walking around and taking pictures. Then, I decided, it was time to go.  At that moment, that breathtaking view could not replace the pure joy of a warm shower.

We visited New Orleans during one of our journeys. Our hotel room was cheap because we had agreed to take the handicapped accessible room, complete with guard rails around the bed and a shower-distinguishable only by a shower curtain, but otherwise completely open to the rest of the tiled bathroom. We indulged in great food and watched a parade march through town, weaved in and out of artists booths in the park, and admired paintings and street artists. We watched crowds extend their hands to balconies and shout excitedly as beads were tossed to them.  A year later, hurricane Katrina would devastate the entire area.

During another trip we stopped at an ostrich farm to feed the birds and purchased enormous, thick shelled ostrich eggs to paint on. We stopped at landmarks, and took detours. We pulled up to three mammoth crosses erected on the side of the road in Texas and watched people pray and cry. There were “Four Corners” and “Twin Arrows,” and long sections of highway punctuated by green signs that promised food and gas. Hardees suddenly becoming Carl’s Junior, burgers with mustard, to Subway sandwiches with avocados on them.  200 miles till the next gas station.  Riding with the gas light on in the middle of nowhere. Pretty electric.

We’ve been to ghost towns and closed towns. Many of these were open on the second-Tuesday-of-every-month-except-in-a-leap-year- kind of deals for limited amounts of time, so they were hard to catch. But we had no set schedules.

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One day we pulled into a mysterious trailer town set against a barren desert landscape. It was the only visible community from the road for hundreds of miles. The campers were arranged in rows to form streets on the dirt. The local hairdresser’s trailer was marked with an old painted wooden sign that hung from a retractable awning over the front door. A few doors down another wooden sign read “Auto Repair,” another “Food.” Each trailer blended into the next, except for pots of faded fake flowers, dream catchers, or rusted hanging chimes. In the center of town, edged with a homemade wooden fence were about three dozen long hills of earth and gravel. It wasn’t until we drove closer that we realized each pile was a grave, marked with a small wooden cross. We crept around the tiny town in our truck, kicking up dirt, waiting to see a single inhabitant, spinning stories in our heads.


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