When I told my daughter that I’d finally found my wedding dress, I expected excitement.
Instead, she looked at me for a moment and asked:
“Why are you spending money on a wedding dress at your age?”
I knew exactly what she meant.
I’m seventy-two.
This will be my third marriage.
From her perspective, there was no reason for an elaborate dress. I already had perfectly nice clothes hanging in my closet. Why spend money on something I’d probably wear only once?
Her argument was practical.
But what she didn’t understand was that I wasn’t simply buying a dress.
I was giving myself something I’d never really had before.
My First Wedding Wasn’t the Wedding I’d Imagined
I was nineteen when I got married for the first time.
And I was pregnant.
There wasn’t much money, and there certainly wasn’t months of careful wedding planning.
My mother lent me her old wedding dress.
I wore it because it was available and because, at nineteen, I thought that was simply what I was supposed to do.
There was no long search for the perfect dress.
No moment in front of a mirror when I thought, This is the one.
Life was already moving quickly, and I was trying to keep up.
That marriage eventually ended.
The Second Time Was Completely Different
At forty-one, I married again.
This time there wasn’t even a traditional wedding dress.
We went to the courthouse, and I wore a beige suit.
Simple.
Practical.
Appropriate.
At least that’s what I told myself.
That marriage ended too.
So when my daughter looked at my life on paper, I could understand her thinking.
I had already been married twice.
Why would a seventy-two-year-old woman need a white wedding dress for marriage number three?
But she was looking at the wedding as an event.
I was looking at it as a moment in my life that I wanted to experience fully.
Then I Found the Dress
I wasn’t searching for anything extravagant.
Eventually, I found a beautiful white lace dress online for about $100.
I ordered it.
When it arrived, I tried it on at home.
And then something happened that I hadn’t expected.
I stood in front of the mirror and, for once, I wasn’t studying everything that age had changed.
I wasn’t counting wrinkles.
I wasn’t criticizing my body.
I wasn’t thinking about being seventy-two.
I saw the woman who had raised three children.
The woman who had survived heartbreak.
The woman who had watched relationships begin and end and had somehow remained willing to believe in love.
I looked at myself and thought:
“Why shouldn’t I?”
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
