When I slam the dressing room door in her face, I'm sure she realizes it was a mistake. I didn't know the dressing room protocol in these parts which requires a saleswoman to put the dress on for you. By dress n°10, I am an expert in this exercise: head up, arms down and turn towards the mirror. By number 20, I've mastered the rule of more is less: the more strands of faux pearls and jazz recital sequins adorning the dress, the cheaper the dress. A simple dress costs more than a mortgage. When it came time to choose my dress, I tried on 30. At the first fitting, as I looked at my bridal reflection in the mirror, the reality of the situation overwhelmed me: 200 guests and a 150-foot aisle. Blood is flowing from my face. I weakly mumble my apologies to the seamstress as I fall off the pedestal and collapse onto the floor, a life-size mushroom of satin silk organza. "I hope I didn't wrinkle the dress. I was about to pass out." She sighs. “You brides really need to eat more.” Yes, after all, it's lunchtime and I'm complaining about wedding plans with one of my brothers-in-law. He and my sister have been married for ten years. Since then, I have rarely heard him get sentimental. While I'm about to lament the state of the veil in the 90s, that's exactly what it does. "You know