When I was visiting my mom in Atlanta a few weeks ago she begged me to give her back her closet space by doing something with my 50lb wedding dress (No joke, the train on that bitch would have put any royal bride’s dress to shame). I had asked her to keep it for me when I moved to New Orleans since the idea of showing up with a wedding dress all wrapped up in a nice garment bag to move in with my new boyfriend did not seem like the greatest idea. He was already antsy about how much furniture I had and how heavy it was, and we were both antsy about living together since previously we had only dated long distance, imagine if I had been like “Here, can you hold this for a second? I’m saving it for our special day,” with a maniacal grin on my face. Oh yeah, it would have been straight back to Atlanta for me.
Point being, I decided to sell the dress. In order to sell the dress, I thought it would be best to model it for mom and the various other family members that were around at the time, thinking “no biggie, I should just see how it fits, if it needs dry cleaning, yada yada yada.” WRONG. Hispanic culture has too many superstitions for me to try and keep up with- one apparently being, do not EVER wear your wedding dress post divorce. Satan will ensure that you never marry again and your putang shrivels up and dies. And NEVER EVER suggest that maybe the family is already cursed since every member of it has been divorced at one point or another and the only member who hasn’t, Brother J, refuses to take pictures with girlfriends anymore, informing me that “When we break up, I won’t have any good pictures of myself that I can show the new girlfriends.”