Princess Bride

I hold one of the most important positions in a woman’s eyes. She
has dreamt of me for so many hopeful years…ever since she realized I exist. So many labels have been used to describe me: gorgeous, a show stopper. I can make the plainest of Janes look like Princess Di.

Yet here I am squeezed in with a hundred others like me on a miserable steel rack in Filene’s Basement in the heart of Boston. I dread the thought of the doors opening at 8 a.m. and the throngs rushing in like a herd of cattle. Yes, today the infamous Wedding Gown Sale begins.

Stores like Saks, Neiman Marcus, Bergdorf Goodman ship out last season’s unsold merchandise. So I was handed my pink slip. Here I am, no more in a place of honor but rather in the lowliest of lows, The Basement.

It doesn’t appease me knowing people flock from neighboring states to join the hordes of philistines and yahoos all chomping at the bit to find that one markdown, that one steal that will make their trip worthwhile.
What if, I think, at the end of the day no one thought me irresistible enough to buy, even at this drastically reduced price! How humiliating!

If I don’t sell in seven days, then I get marked down further and the price drops exponentially every seven days until, horror of horrors, I get donated to a charitable organization! I never in my wildest imagination dreamed this could happen to me. I began life on the rack with such great expectations, visualizing my walk down the aisle, all eyes on me, admiration filling the chapel, soft murmuring about my beauty. Now this! How did I get here? What went wrong?

Wait…what’s that noise I hear? Oh, no, the pounding of hooves heading in my direction, sounds of heavy breathing mixed with eager, charged voices at a feverish pitch getting closer and closer and now upon me. Unmanicured hands are grabbing at me. I’m so not used to this.

Displeasure voiced at my size, my style, fabric or the type of lace. Someone nonchalantly drops me to the floor without so much as a thought. Another woman, two sizes larger than I, decides to give me a try and nearly pops my snaps, despite sucking in her breath until she nearly faints. This is worse than I ever imagined.

My good karma suddenly kicks in. A princess-like girl in her early 20s discovers me, lifts me up, admires me, and smiles approvingly, eyes never leaving me. She oohs and presses me tightly against her bosom. “Perfect!” she whoops. “This is what I’ve always dreamed of.” Her Mom quickly glances at the price tag and beams. “It’s from Saks” she purrs. “It’s your lucky day.”

And it’s mine, too. Someone who really appreciates me has found me. Again I can hold my head up high.

Hmm, life sure has a way of bringing us to our destiny in ways we never could have imagined.

Princess Bride


San Diego, United States

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Artist's Description

A wedding gown speaks of the horror of horrors, being sent to Filene’s Basement for their annual sale of wedding attire.

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