Sure, it’s as balmy as a Louisiana plumber’s buttcrack outside, but if you’re a bride-to-be, don’t sweat it: you can stay cool and totally on-trend with a bridal romper. That’s right! Wedding gowns are so 16th century and it’s about time someone realized it.
I don’t know about you, but my last few weddings were an absolute nightmare because of my traditional dress. The first time, the skirt of my gown had so many billowing layers I could barely dance to Shaggy’s timeless song “Angel” (ft. Rayvon), and I managed to pee on every layer because my bridesmaids — whose sole purpose is to assist in urination — weren’t actually my friends, they were my second cousins, and both male.
Pee isn’t the worst stain you could get on your dress, especially if you’re properly hydrated — more and more brides are choosing champagne over white these days anyway. But don’t get me started on my fourth wedding.
Looks like you got me started. I’m obliged to elaborate.
As I glided down the aisle to the instrumental version of Hilary Duff’s “Come Clean”, I suddenly realized that Yakov, the man whom I was about to wed, was not the one for me. The two days I’d known him had been sensational, but not in the lovestruck way, more in the carnally orgasmic way. Our language barrier hadn’t yet been a problem, but I realized how difficult hosting dinner parties would be when he couldn’t speak or understand a word of English. Who would brag about my scrapbooking talents or narrate slideshows of our trip to Japan? What would the Thornton family say? I glanced at the Thorntons in the pew to my right. Tiffany Thornton was staring me down with the Botoxed scrutiny of a rehydrated raisin investigating a murder. Who would delegate such responsibility to a raisin? I knew it was now or never.
I turned and ran.
At least, I tried to. I would have made my escape, had it not been for the intricately woven train of my antique wedding gown. The delicate lace had maliciously wrapped itself around my diamond-studded stiletto and was ensnared on one of the crystalline spikes. As I spun around, I came tumbling down face-first into the ring-bearer, who in this case was a Clydesdale horse.
Let me briefly explain the Clydesdale, in case you’re wondering. The night before, while planning our wedding, Yakov and I had been watching television and a Wells Fargo commercial came on. If I weren’t such a lady I would delve into detail about the ways Yakov ravaged every hole in my body, but I’ll let you and your imagination have the fun. For a reason Yakov could not explain — at least in English — Clydesale horses made him as horny as a high school Attendance Office secretary. I’m all about consummation, so we booked that damn horse.
Back to Wedding 4: the Clydesdale proceeded to trample me into the ground and I lost the ability to move and speak for a few months. The ceremony continued as I lay unconscious, and to this day I am still reluctantly married to Yakov.
This all could have been avoided if my attire had allowed me to run the way I so yearned to. With a bridal romper, you can dance, skip, and sprint away from your own wedding whenever you please, without the hassle of misogynistic tulle spoiling your chance at happiness.