It would not zip up.
It had, not two weeks ago, zipped just fine—with extra room, in fact. But now, forty-five minutes before we were supposed to be sitting in the wedding chapel pew, the beautiful silk cocktail dress would not zip. The wedding was at 5:30 on Saturday evening. It was black-tie (technically “optional,” but not practically so). The bride’s family was from New York City, and the wedding was in an upscale part of Connecticut. I had packed only one formal dress to wear. This dress. This dress that was supposed to fit, but didn’t.
“Let me see,” my husband said as I started pacing in the tiny Air B&B Bedroom that looked like an explosion of somebody’s great aunt’s entire nick-knack collection. We’re talking cat figurines, cat clocks, a cat doorstop, and some angels (of course there were angels—with older women of the great-aunt variety, where there are always cats and angels). There were also weird glass bowls, and teacups, and not enough room on either side of the bed to fit both suitcases. There were proper inns, of course, but those cost three times as much, and we have other things to pay for, like diapers.
