I have a six-page feature in Aventura magazine this month that many of you will be interested in. I believe Florida peeps can purchase it at B&N, Publix etc. But it's not online so if you want a copy send me your addresses.
(Photos accompanying this post are in the post below. Blogger is fucking with me today.)
Soo, Vegas. I know it's un PC to say, but I dread weddings lately. Like an afternoon at Hermès, they serve only to illustrate all the beautiful things I most likely will never attain.
The wedding and everything associated with it was flawless, so these opinions have absolutely nothing to do with this wedding in particular. As usual, I am just using this weekend to illustrate a point.
Friday night in Las Vegas at the Ritz some miles out of town at the rehearsal dinner. Michael and I were seated at the "singles" table, even though there was only one other single male as far as I could tell. Earlier, I'd donned my Narciso dress that Susan bought me back when the tennis balls were still occupying my chest. I'd promised Susan I'd wear it this weekend. And it fit perfectly, but it showed an uncomfortably ample amount of cleavage.
"Steph, why don't you wear clothes that don't show so much cleavage?" Dad asks.
"It's not the fucking clothes! It's the fact that my knockers are still up to my chin Dad."
During rehearsal dinners and weddingy events I get morose. Especially when I am one of the sole singletons and on top of that am wearing a wig and boasting fake tits. I can't help it; though I am pleased for the happy couple, I am even more sorry for myself.
I'd wisely borrowed mom's gold Loro Piana shawl and covered the girls up most of the night. After the dinner, I had mom snap a couple of photos of Michael and me. I looked at the photos, saw my melons poking out of the top and immediately deleted the evidence. You see, this was the weekend I'd been looking forward to since D-day. The social event where I'd be able to debut the new girls to friends and family friends. I was not supposed to look the way I did in those photos. Fabulous from below the chest and pleasing from above, but the whole package? Appalling.
It only got worse on the shuttle, wherein I changed my status on Facebook to something like "Stephanie just realized she will always be the single, nippleless girl at rehearsal dinners and weddings."
By the time we pulled up to the Bellagio, I was completely morose. I wasn't having it anymore. I looked "sooo good" according to everyone else, but what did it matter when I felt like a leper?
So picture this. Stephanie proceeding to the lobby decked out in her (apparently) invaluable angel hair coral, Loro shawl, black, sweetheart neckline Narciso dress, vintage, re-issued Manolos and $4,000 wig. Now picture Stephanie in a fit of depression and low self-esteem removing her wig in the middle of the lobby of the Bellagio. I carried it in my hand over the Loro shawl and clickety-clacked my way through the hotel looking like a couture version of Cousin It. Now, I know some strange shit goes down in Vegas, but I can't imagine something like this is normal. I made it back to my room just in time for the waterworks. I called the front desk, convinced them that my last PPV purchase of SATC had stopped and had them restart it. At the same time, I was trying to keep the hysterics at bay, knowing that the next day was the wedding and all it takes is a few heaving sobs for me to get all Renee Zelweger-y.
I popped some pills and passed out, knowing the wedding would stir up even worse feelings of self-loathing.
I started out the day placing green tea bags and cold washcloths over my eyes. I also ate a Klonopin along with each meal, which at least numbed the pain. Because this was the big night-the Oscar de la Renta reveal. The borrowed earrings and vintage Chopard watch from mom; the mint-cond Valentino stilettos that mimicked the embroidery on the Oscar dress. I paid someone to do my makeup and put my lashes on.
"I'll make this real easy on you," I told the makeup artist. "Smoky eyes, lashes, liquid liner and anything you can do to minimize the puffiness."
I looked hot, I did. I can say that objectively. I know I'm a good-looking gal, but that is completely beside the point when I feel like this. The wedding wasn't as depressing as the rehearsal dinner, probably because I was all cried out and had resigned myself. I forced Michael to go outside and snap some photos of me in the dress that I've been boring you with for, oh, what, eight months now? I knew you guys would want to see the evidence, even if I wasn't all too pleased with the pot at the end of the rainbow.
Out of about 10 frames, I liked two at most.
Now I'm sitting on a plane an hour and a half away from home and less than 12 hours until my Monday Herceptin infusion while the WT next to me has his stinky feet up on the seat in front of him. Is this really my life? Seriously? Seriously.
Anyway, I've decided that I will indeed marry-myself. Next year Il San Pietro in Positano on the Amalfi Coast. I'll be registered at Bergdorf's natch.
