I should arrive at the Dallas Galleria around noon. I don’t have to be anywhere until tomorrow morning, which means my shopping will be relaxed. Though some think of malls as the bane of modern man, I went without them for so many years that I grew to appreciate the draped mannequins, the warm aroma wafting from the cookie place, the angled patterns of light, and the splishing fountains. And this time of year it’s all about Christmas, and who doesn’t enjoy that? This afternoon I will view and try on dresses for Sam and Julia’s upcoming wedding, which will take place in February on the property once owned by Stephen F. Austin, widely known as the Father of Texas. It’s an impressive location and they’ll say their vows surrounded by live oaks, pecan trees, and the snuffling and lowing of longhorns.
David thinks I’m silly for dwelling on the dress: most men would think so. But there’s a hierarchy to be considered, a tradition voiced by no one and adhered to by women everywhere.
The most prized tier belongs to the bride. This is her day and she has the final say in all decisions. Colors, flowers, food, location—all stand in evidence of her wisdom and good taste. Though she might disdain vanity and trends at other times, on this day she will be admired for her notable grace, charm, and, most importantly, unsurpassable beauty. This beauty is not to be challenged, and though Julia is gorgeous and not fearful of competition, there is still the everlasting law of the hierarchy that must not be tested; and to this end, while all other women in attendance should take care with their appearance, they should not take the utmost care.
The second rung is taken up by the bridesmaids, in this case, ten of them. (Oh, Julia!) I know none of these young women, but I can imagine them—giddy, loyal, supportive, and, because Julia and Sam are who they are, representative of many cultures and nations. Indeed, they are flying to Texas from all reaches of the planet. These bridesmaids will apply their makeup and tame their hair in a modest fashion. If they are tempted to glow with happiness or excitement, they will respectfully subdue themselves. Under no circumstances is a bridesmaid to out glow the bride.
As to the mothers; third and fourth levels, respectively. The bride’s mother must present a more restrained countenance than the bridesmaids; and she must be slightly more lovely than the groom’s mother. Worth noting, though, is that on this third tier, the issue of color comes into play. The trim color Julia has chosen is dark green—pine, not Kelly or hunter. It’s a sagacious choice, right for the season and universally flattering. But what color does that leave for the mothers? What color will compliment both the wearer and the deep green?
“It’s just a dress.” David’s voice is in my head. “No one will be paying attention to you anyway.”
Oh, but they will be if I show up in a loud or clashing color.
Though Julia’s mom, Khim, is British, her heritage is Malaysian, which means dark hair and eyes. Her hair is short and her cheeks are soft pink. A retired midwife, she radiates calmness and contentment. She takes things in stride. And like me, she’s an open book. With her there are no undercurrents or agendas. I wonder where she stands on the issue of color. The way I see it, there are truly only three choices—a dusky rose, a pale silvery gray, or a multi-colored pattern, floral or geometric. Because Khim would look truly lovely in antique rose, I’ll leave that alone in case she wants it. And because busy prints look like pajamas on my squatty form, a pastel gray is my goal. As to style, I’ll simply have to see what the stores have on offer.
It’s a disaster. Four hours, sore feet. In and out of every store that has dresses. Ruffles and pleats. Fronts that gape, waistlines three inches too high, trims that don’t match. Sequins, sparkles, and fluorescent pinks and oranges. Zippers on the outside. Fake jewelry sewn into the neckline—why? Unexpectedly, this year’s dominating colors are pine green, which is inappropriate because it’s what the bridesmaids will be wearing, and black, which is inappropriate because, well, it’s black. Defeat.
On the way to the hotel I stop for take-out nachos. At the quick mart next door to the taco place I buy a Guinness. I check in to the hotel, eat while I watch TV, and go to sleep.
The next morning I give a talk to a readers’ group that’s paying me enough to cover the hotel, gas, Guinness, and nachos—plus the added benefit of getting to publicize my books. Five years ago I would never have pictured myself sharing my novels, opinions, and experiences with twenty-five women. But I’ve done it several times now and I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s gratifying to be greeted by people who are enthusiastic about my work and want to know what I have to say about creativity, inspiration, and discipline. Hey, I have an ego. I never knew.
That being said, though it seems like I’ve been publicizing these novels forever, Why Stuff Matters was actually only recently released in the states. So there’s fixing to be a big publicity push. Soon Why Stuff Matters will be everywhere. If you haven’t bought it, buy it. If you haven’t written a review, write one. Please. If you belong to a reader’s group or if your library invites guest speakers, I’ll go anywhere in Texas. Publicity is vital to the life of a book and the strength and longevity of a writer’s career. Mic drop.
This is the theme color for the wedding. Sometimes cameras and ambient light don’t work together to give a true picture, but this is clear enough to give an idea, right? This color is being called “teal” in the stores, which I find puzzling. I think of teal as being more of a turquoise, a light shade of blue-green. Thoughts?
