What not to wear to a wedding......as per msn.com..LONG
Wedding etiquette forbids the wearing of a white dress to anyone except the bride. You can wear fire-engine red, you can wear cream (at a stretch) you can even wear leopard-print Dolce & Gabbana slashed to the upper thigh with a thong underneath (as Elizabeth Hurley famously demonstrated) or a plunging neckline skirted with ruffles (in the subtle but sexy style of the late Carolyn Bessette Kennedy) but you can't wear white.
Female wedding guests are supposed to look elegant and bridesmaids are supposed to look pretty without eclipsing the central character. It's the bride's day, yet that doesn't seem to stop women from making blatantly obvious attempts to hog the limelight. Blame it on unconscious biological imperatives (the battle for propagating the species) or just put it down to good old-fashioned envy, but there is something about a wedding invitation that brings out the rival vixen in a woman. Especially a single woman. I have been Cinderella's jealous sister for 15 years now, so I know.
It began with my first experience as a bridesmaid at the age of 20. The bride was a Modernist fashion designer and she concocted plum neo-Grecian silk dresses with lengths of chiffon wrapped across the bosom at radical diagonals. All through the ceremony the fabric either flattened our assets or drooped like used bandages, while our matching headdresses slipped down over our noses. After six champagnes I began flashing my stocking tops to the wedding photographer. Not the most dignified behavior. It gets worse!
Invited to the Catholic wedding of my high-school crush I wore red. Invited to the wedding of an old roommate I wore red again and a swag of red roses in my hair. Cha cha cha! Invited to the wedding of my first serious boyfriend, I wore silver lamé and danced with the bride's brother all night long. Ouch. Invited to the wedding of a man who had proposed to me haphazardly and then married a movie star three months later, I was humbled. Opting to behave, I dressed diplomatically in kitten heels, a canary-yellow taffeta skirt and a black jersey leotard. When you are the guest of the groom and not the bride, it takes special gall to overdress. You are, after all, there by the grace of God.
When a girlfriend gets married, it is equally delicate, but it's also much more tempting to misbehave. Blame it on my youth. One year later at a big, chic Greek wedding, I not only wore cream lace but fainted during the ceremony and later formed a wild Zorba-like circle with five groomsmen at the reception, singing and waving my arms in the air as they removed hair pins one by one to loosen my shameless single-woman locks. Mea culpa.
What is it about weddings? Is it the free champagne and abundance of men in suits? Is it the threshold between youth and responsibility, or is it simply the indignity of feeling like you are still in line while someone else has made it to the top of the aisle? Self-pity and sassy abandon are a volatile mix when choosing a dress for a big event. Somehow the more conservative an occasion, the more tempting it is to flout convention—especially if you barely know the bride and even more so if you want to be in her satin shoes.
This year I am getting married. And now that it is finally my turn, a sudden wave of remorse and trepidation has gripped me. How arrogant I was to grind my heels into someone else's teardrops and hard-won confetti! Being a bride is hugely stressful and makes one excruciatingly vulnerable. Single guests may swan about flouting indecent cleavage and gardenias in their hair, but the bride has to pull off a much more complex hat trick: She has helped organized the whole day, argued over the height of the cake, stressed over money, been awake all night, kept families from feuding, kept the groom from going west and, if she is 37 like me, tried to keep herself from looking like mutton dressed as lamb.
Most brides are tricked up like Snow White on the day when they most feel like the Evil Queen, and there right in front of her eyes are tribes of cavorting nymphs as carefree as the summer wind. Damn them!
Now I understand why bridesmaids' gowns are invariably cut to the knee and chosen in innocuous shades of lilac and mint green. These extra women are supposed to function like human floral arrangements, beautiful but artfully blended into the scenery. My karma is to have four bridesmaids all more beautiful than the other. One should wear red silk and emeralds with her famous bosom prominently on display. One should wear spaghetti straps baring the best arms in the universe. One should wear a miniskirt and cross and uncross her fabulous legs throughout the ceremony and one, the youngest of all, should wear her soft blonde hair loose to the hips with extra lipgloss on her gigantic plump pout.
As a reformed bad-girl wedding guest, delinquent bridesmaid and potentially psychotic bride I am ready to hang up my rock 'n' roll Peter Fox boots for good. This September in Tuscany when I attend my tenth wedding, I will dig up the quietest floral dress, the lowest heels and the floppiest plain straw sun hat I can find. Finally, with plenty of experience, I can happily say it's her day, bless her.
At my own wedding let the bridesmaids squeeze in the best camera angles, let them boogie with champagne glasses in hand and let them eat cake. The secret of a great wedding is always a little spice. The princess bride is dressed in white, symbolic of virginity and her guests should frolic forth in hot pink, lipstick red and electric blue, symbolic of a **** good time. The fantasy of romantic love is a collective one and at a wedding it really does take all kinds, including at least one outrageous strumpet. What a relief that this year it won't be me.
Female wedding guests are supposed to look elegant and bridesmaids are supposed to look pretty without eclipsing the central character. It's the bride's day, yet that doesn't seem to stop women from making blatantly obvious attempts to hog the limelight. Blame it on unconscious biological imperatives (the battle for propagating the species) or just put it down to good old-fashioned envy, but there is something about a wedding invitation that brings out the rival vixen in a woman. Especially a single woman. I have been Cinderella's jealous sister for 15 years now, so I know.
It began with my first experience as a bridesmaid at the age of 20. The bride was a Modernist fashion designer and she concocted plum neo-Grecian silk dresses with lengths of chiffon wrapped across the bosom at radical diagonals. All through the ceremony the fabric either flattened our assets or drooped like used bandages, while our matching headdresses slipped down over our noses. After six champagnes I began flashing my stocking tops to the wedding photographer. Not the most dignified behavior. It gets worse!
Invited to the Catholic wedding of my high-school crush I wore red. Invited to the wedding of an old roommate I wore red again and a swag of red roses in my hair. Cha cha cha! Invited to the wedding of my first serious boyfriend, I wore silver lamé and danced with the bride's brother all night long. Ouch. Invited to the wedding of a man who had proposed to me haphazardly and then married a movie star three months later, I was humbled. Opting to behave, I dressed diplomatically in kitten heels, a canary-yellow taffeta skirt and a black jersey leotard. When you are the guest of the groom and not the bride, it takes special gall to overdress. You are, after all, there by the grace of God.
When a girlfriend gets married, it is equally delicate, but it's also much more tempting to misbehave. Blame it on my youth. One year later at a big, chic Greek wedding, I not only wore cream lace but fainted during the ceremony and later formed a wild Zorba-like circle with five groomsmen at the reception, singing and waving my arms in the air as they removed hair pins one by one to loosen my shameless single-woman locks. Mea culpa.
What is it about weddings? Is it the free champagne and abundance of men in suits? Is it the threshold between youth and responsibility, or is it simply the indignity of feeling like you are still in line while someone else has made it to the top of the aisle? Self-pity and sassy abandon are a volatile mix when choosing a dress for a big event. Somehow the more conservative an occasion, the more tempting it is to flout convention—especially if you barely know the bride and even more so if you want to be in her satin shoes.
This year I am getting married. And now that it is finally my turn, a sudden wave of remorse and trepidation has gripped me. How arrogant I was to grind my heels into someone else's teardrops and hard-won confetti! Being a bride is hugely stressful and makes one excruciatingly vulnerable. Single guests may swan about flouting indecent cleavage and gardenias in their hair, but the bride has to pull off a much more complex hat trick: She has helped organized the whole day, argued over the height of the cake, stressed over money, been awake all night, kept families from feuding, kept the groom from going west and, if she is 37 like me, tried to keep herself from looking like mutton dressed as lamb.
Most brides are tricked up like Snow White on the day when they most feel like the Evil Queen, and there right in front of her eyes are tribes of cavorting nymphs as carefree as the summer wind. Damn them!
Now I understand why bridesmaids' gowns are invariably cut to the knee and chosen in innocuous shades of lilac and mint green. These extra women are supposed to function like human floral arrangements, beautiful but artfully blended into the scenery. My karma is to have four bridesmaids all more beautiful than the other. One should wear red silk and emeralds with her famous bosom prominently on display. One should wear spaghetti straps baring the best arms in the universe. One should wear a miniskirt and cross and uncross her fabulous legs throughout the ceremony and one, the youngest of all, should wear her soft blonde hair loose to the hips with extra lipgloss on her gigantic plump pout.
As a reformed bad-girl wedding guest, delinquent bridesmaid and potentially psychotic bride I am ready to hang up my rock 'n' roll Peter Fox boots for good. This September in Tuscany when I attend my tenth wedding, I will dig up the quietest floral dress, the lowest heels and the floppiest plain straw sun hat I can find. Finally, with plenty of experience, I can happily say it's her day, bless her.
At my own wedding let the bridesmaids squeeze in the best camera angles, let them boogie with champagne glasses in hand and let them eat cake. The secret of a great wedding is always a little spice. The princess bride is dressed in white, symbolic of virginity and her guests should frolic forth in hot pink, lipstick red and electric blue, symbolic of a **** good time. The fantasy of romantic love is a collective one and at a wedding it really does take all kinds, including at least one outrageous strumpet. What a relief that this year it won't be me.
