This week I'm shamelessly swiping an idea from the fabulous CJane, and we're gonna have some fun playing Three Truths and a Lie.
For the next four days, I'll post a story about my life--three will be true, and one will be a big, fat, fabricated lie. Then, on the fifth day you'll all get to vote for the story you believe was pulled straight out of the darkness of my arse.
To prevent any bean spillage from those of you who are familiar with my real life business, please, please, please refrain from commenting.
So here we go. Story numero uno:
One zillion years ago, I sold a never-used wedding dress on FirstClass for $50. FirstClass was my college's email system, and in a lot of ways, it resembled a stripped down Craig's List. It was the place to sell heavily-used furniture, adopt frat dogs, and find random, non-committal hookups on a lonely Friday night.
Not that I ever did that--because seriously, I really never did that.
In all honestly, I wasn't that type of girl. My style was far more akin to lasting devotion and long-term commitment. I suppose that's how I found myself engaged, at the age of 19, to a promising young chef.
This was no joke you guys. We're talking diamond ring, wedding dress, wedding date, church, reception site, the works.
Trust me friends, if you had tasted this man's lobster bisque, you would have said 'yes,' too. I don't care if you're male, female, gay or straight--you most definitely would've let him put the ring on your hungry little, food loving finger. His soup was that good.
(Do you think it'd be overly tacky to call him 9 years later, and ask him to whip up a quick batch for my husband and me?)
If you do the math, and consider the fact that I married Jared at the fresh, young age of 21, you'll come to realize that this engagement didn't last so long. Within a matter of months the ring was returned, the date on the calendar was scratched off, and all kinds of deposits were rightfully refunded.
But the dress? Oh my word that dress stuck around.
For the first couple of years it hung around in my childhood closet, taking up 60% of the available space with its many cubic yards of tulle and organza. And then, 3 or so years later, when Jared and I bought our first house (which coincidentally, we later sold on FirstClass), my mom wrestled that dress into the back seat of her Jetta, drove it up to Maine, plopped it on my bed and said, "Congratulations on the house. Now take this."
This house--all two stories of it--boasted just over 800 square-feet and was set on a lovely .09 acre lot. Our master bedroom literally measured 7x11, so it's needless to say that storing a 62 square-foot dress from a called off wedding was completely out of the question. Even the backyard couldn't have handled this thing.
So up it went, on FirstClass. It was listed above a ratty apartment for rent and under an advertisement for keg-stand coaching.
I'm dead serious.
Within 48 hours, I had gotten two inquiries. One from a super sweet, size 24 girl, who was hoping to be a size 8 by her wedding day in August, and the second was from a person named Samuel. The email was signed by "Sammy," and according to the text, Sammy was a wedding dress collector.
I replied to both emails, setting up times for each person to come and see the dress.
Cara, the plus-sized sweetheart, came to see the dress on Monday. As soon as I unzipped the garment bag, tears welled up in her eyes. By the time the dress was out of the bag, she was engulfed in full on sobs. A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, discussing Cara's lifelong battle with her weight. An hour later we hugged, and she drove off. Without the wedding dress.
The next day, Sammy came to see the dress, and sure enough, Sammy was a man dressed as a woman. Actually, he was a college guy dressed up as a college girl. He was obviously in the beginning stages of his transition wearing female clothing and press-on nails with a giant men's watch. High heels and long hair with very manly glasses.
Whatever. I didn't care. I just wanted someone, anyone, to buy the damn dress.
Sammy stepped into the privacy of our bedroom and quietly worked himself into the dress. He came out a few minutes later asking for help with the zipper.
"Suck it in," I said.
I yanked up on the zipper and Sammy said, "You've got to be kidding me! This is so tight! I can hardly breath!"
"But it looks beautiful," I replied.
"But I can hardly stand it," he retorted.
"Listen," I said. "Sammy, being a man is all about the comfort. But being a woman? It's all about the beauty, and you look beautiful in this dress."
"Really," he asked?
"Really," I said. "If you're serious about this, you've got to get used to not breathing."
And apparently he did. He bargained me down by $10, bought the dress, and a few weeks later he emailed me a couple pictures of himself sporting the dress at a sorority formal.
Sure he was overdressed, but damn he looked goooood.
These days, Sammy and I still keep in touch on Facebook and she looks a heck of a lot better than I do--perfect hair, perfect nails, and slammin' legs in a miniskirt.
Every now and then I'll find myself feeling jealous of her looks. But then I have to remind myself--I've had a baby, Sammy hasn't.