A man at a wedding dress trunk sale.... insanity! But I was intrigued by the processes that went into this supposedly huge decision undertaken by the opposite sex. And I was determined to be an accommodating groom.
As the sale day was upon me I found myself optimistic while en route to the local mall with my mother, my mother-in-law-to-be, and my beautiful, brilliant, bespectacled bride. Also along for the ride was my book of H.P. Lovecraft stories, should it be necessary to retreat into a more comforting, rational world.
The dresses were condensed in the center of the mall, as if a small island walled up by a border of other wedding vendors. Wedding cakes stretched up like mountains, shadows of salespeople creeped out from every corner. A man supposing himself to be a DJ stood next to a cardboard cut-out of himself. His comb-over was something of unspeakable horror. A short deranged creature reached out to my fiancee and me. She claimed to represent some kind of event space as she asked if we'd already decided upon a reception locale. "Yes" we answered. She insistently gave us her card anyway. I felt myself beginning to slip away from sanity. These things all made no sense. Around me women clamored for gowns like half-wild beasts. The massive white monstrosities that claimed to be dresses seemed as if they had been fashioned from some strange other world or time. I gasped for my breath, trying to make sense of the ritual that surrounded me. But before I could, a frilly white obscenity came collapsing down upon me. Oh the fabric.... Oh the lace.... Oh the horror!
I gathered that my darling Erica too was struck by the madness all around us. Yet she fared better. Perhaps there really was some genetic gender-specific disposition that allowed her to comprehend that which we were witnessing. She was steadfast and when she grabbed some dresses to try on and beckoned I leave I couldn't have been anything other than appreciative. Ah to the safety of my book.
Millenia later my darling emerged displeased by the ensembles she had donned. We were all going home. The nightmare had ended, yet I shan't forget that place where satin, taffeta, tulle and comb-overs converge in a grotesque paean to unholy things that no man should ever have to know.