And, you know, just as well, because until I looked at these photos, I felt fabulous in this comfortable, beautifully-cut, well-made, expressive MaxMara dress. I'd thrown it on after a busy morning -- had walked down to have breakfast with my daughter, the bride, and her two good friends whom I've known almost 20 years. Walked home and had a nap in anticipation of a long evening ahead. Then pinned my hair up, wetted it down (to reactivate the frizz-controlling product), threw on the dress, the long-planned accessories, fixed makeup, and headed out. At the club, my focus was on taking photos of bride and sisters and friends as they got dressed -- and I helped Nola move from post-nap reserve into wedding readiness.
Not 'til I looked in a bathroom mirror hours later did I realize that I'd never picked the volume back into my hair after the wetting-down. Nor remember that I hadn't threaded bra straps through those cunning little loops expressly provided for that purpose in the dress's shoulders.
I'll even admit I started to wallow a bit in some of that self-loathing we can do (Oh, you don't? Lucky!), my emotions perhaps already fragile the day after the wedding, the lost sleep possibly contributing to a bout of weepiness.
But even as Paul was protesting that he'd taken these shots to capture a tenderness he saw between Nana and Nola, even as he was arguing that my outfit looked great, I was already moving to the perspective that works for me: The day wasn't about me. Yes, perhaps I should have taken more care with the polish, but I had a lovely time, and my daughter looked luminous, marvelously happy. Her family and friends were gorgeous and relaxed and celebratory all at once. And my dress, wrinkled from cuddling Nola throughout the ceremony, was perfect for moving easily with a little girl in my arms, for bending over to talk to her, for dancing exuberantly. Besides, look how superbly it blends with coral (the magenta and coral was a pairing accidentally repeated among the guests, almost a theme). . .