The Asphalt Salesman and a Wedding Dress
This weekend, I had the honor of celebrating a dear friend at her beautiful wedding. It had been so long since I was on the wedding circuit, but I thoroughly enjoyed all that came with the event- the socializing, the decor, the aroma of the gorgeous flowers, and the first sight of the stunning bride in her dress. She was absolutely lovely. Perfection.
The event made me reminisce back to shopping for my very own wedding dress in the fall of 2011. It was a monumental moment in my life. It was monumental in any woman’s life, especially a southern woman. I would finally get to try on wedding dresses for my wedding. And I emphasize finally. I had long dreamed of the day and often wondered what style I would decide on for the big moment. Would it be a tightly fitted dress? Trumpet skirt? Princess, ball gown style? I had a few ideas, but nothing set in stone.
My mother had driven up from Mississippi to Nashville for the occasion. We would spend the day looking for the dress with the only break being for lunch- which of course would be a delicious chicken salad, egg and olive salad, or pimento and cheese sandwich on white bread from the local blue hair’s favorite spot- The PicNic Cafe. I had eagerly scheduled three appointments, perfectly spaced throughout the day in order to give me enough time so I would not feel rushed. Everything was perfect, and as long as my mother could keep her often extremely strong opinions to herself, we would be fine.
The first appointment was at ten. I remained calm on the outside, but my insides were squealing with delight at the first glimpse of heavy white gowns- some with delicate lace overlays, some with shantung silk formed to create a beautiful piece of art. They all hung in a perfect row on the first designer rack I saw. I slowly studied each, one by one, but was surprised when nothing peaked my interest. Not a single one. Where were the dresses I had seen in all the magazines? These all looked like tired prom dresses from the late nineties. I was devastated, but at the urging of my mother, I reluctantly tried on two that could easily pass for a cotillion dress for my twelve year old cousin. My mother could see the disappointment on my face and graciously told the saleswoman as I stood in the mirror in a drab looking dress, “Well, this is just our first stop. We have a big day, so we don’t want to get too excited about the first couple of dresses.”
Relieved, I ran to the dressing room, the sides of the heavy gown pulled up above my tennis shoes in order for me to move as quickly as I could. I changed back into the street clothes I had worn into the store, thanked the ladies for their hospitality, then headed to the car. On to the next.
Our second stop was much better. This store was filled with high end gowns I wasn’t sure I could even afford, but it would not stop me from trying on at least one from each designer. Valentina was the first rack, then came the ever classic Vera Wang. Romona Keveza was in the adjacent room nestled with her friends- the fantastically beautiful Oscar de la Renta and Carolina Herrera. It was heavenly. Each gown I tried on had her own name and rightfully so. The stunning pieces of art disguised as fashion each deserved those names or even their own title.
After spending well over my allotted appointment time, I fell in love with a Vera Wang. It was a silk organza strapless gown with a slimming criss cross bodice, drop waist, and a fit and flare skirt with the most delicate beaded lily of the valley flowers throughout. I admired myself in the mirror, like the scene in Runaway Bride where Julia Roberts gracefully moves like a bell in her stunning dress for her third wedding. I quietly thought about where I could cut corners in the wedding budget to make sure this dress would be mine, but my calculations were all too soon interrupted by my mother, “One more appointment! We can’t be late.”
“I think this is the one, though,” I sternly replied.
My mother agreed she (I believe the dress’s name was Devon) was indeed very beautiful, but convincingly said, “We can always come back.”
I took one last look in the mirror, then painfully parted ways with my new best friend, Devon, assuring her I would return, and told her to wait for me. We ventured to our last appointment at a boutique I had always imagined I would find my dress in for some reason. It was three o’clock. I hesitantly walked the room, picking through a few styles I found pretty, and placed Devon in a special corner of the back of my mind. There was a classic strapless lace dress, a sleeveless form fitting gown with an origami like bow on the back for extra pizazz, and finally, a dainty dress with a soft silhouette trimmed with the perfect amount of lace and a pale blush sash. The back was cut deep with a soft, flowing ruffle of fabric on the edge and an underlay with just the right amount of lace. It was different from any dress I had seen before, but I was unsure how it would look on me.
I tried all three on, and all three looked perfect. The memory of Devon seemed to be fading fast. I looked at my mom and said, “I cannot choose.”
She looked at me and made a very honest and true statement. “We need backup. Call Kelly.”
Kelly had been a dear girlfriend of mine since I was about four or five growing up in Mississippi. We had gone to elementary school, high school, and then college at Ole Miss together. And she just so happened to live about ten miles away. She was a black and white, take it or leave it, hated anything and everything fake type of girl who’d take every opportunity to tell you how it was, whether you liked it or not. Kelly was the classic southern debutante but was also the first one there to hand you a shot of tequila or light your cigarette (when people still smoked). She was a gem of a friend.
Kelly had been raised in a very prestigious Mississippi family. She never went without but she was taught not to flaunt it. She was as southerners would put it, “raised right.” And she was the best damn bargain hunter in the South. Still to this day, she’ll find the most incredible deal on a new mattress or discover a hidden and elusive jewel buried deep within the shelves of TJ Maxx. She has a true talent.
That being said, Kelly worked for her family’s company, which was a well-known and highly profitable oil business. She had been placed in the asphalt division, selling concrete to some of the toughest men in town. Kelly could really get on their level, even though she had to wear the ugliest and stiffest collared shirt I had ever seen in my life and drive one monster of a vehicle- the Ford F-450 super duty dually truck. It was the loudest and biggest thing I had ever seen, but the five foot two blonde was hell on wheels in it and handled it like a pro.
Standing in a beautiful wedding dress, I made the call. It just so happened Kelly was right around the corner from the bridal shop. I like to think she somehow knew I’d need back up and was circling the area waiting for the opportunity. Sure enough, we all heard her loud diesel truck coming before we saw her. That super duty F-450 peeled into the parking lot, and out jumped my friend in her stiff, collared shirt. As luck would have it she had just come from a convention downtown, dressed in her less than lovely uniform, promoting her family’s asphalt to the best of her ability.
Kelly came in, ready to take on the responsibility at hand. First was the classic lace strapless with an ivory underlay:
“Too boring. Everyone has that dress, and it makes everyone look good. Next.”
Second was the structured gown with the artistic, origami bow on the back:
“Everyone will expect you to wear this dress. No surprise there. It’s very you, but next.”
Third, came the delicate and soft dress with the open back and pale blush sash that made me feel beautifully ethereal. I floated out of the dressing room, with hopeful anticipation of what my friend would say.
“That’s it. Get that one. Done.” No emotion, no squeals of excitement- that was Kelly.
I was surprised, even though I absolutely loved the gown. “You think? Do you want to see the Vera Wang one at the other store just to make sure?” Truth be told, the one I had on was well below my budget, as I had unknowingly hit a sample sale when I walked through the door. There would be no having to reassess my budget with this particular dress, and it fit like a glove. I was as if it was meant for me.
“Nope. My work here is done.” Kelly walked over to a small rack filled with dainty, intricate, and gorgeous veils- all with different and delicate laces. She thumbed through each, pulled one that perfectly matched the lace trim on my dress, looked at me and simply stated, “And here’s your veil.”
As I placed the veil in my hair, I was thrilled to realize that she was in fact, and per usual, right. Kelly, my mother, and I all admired the gown. While talking about the upcoming nuptials and how I should wear my hair, the boutique owner walked toward us from across the room. We had all been so enthralled in the selection process, we had completely forgotten she was there. The prim and proper woman confusingly looked at my friend in her boxy collared shirt and said, “You are so good at this. You must be in fashion. What exactly do you do?”
Kelly sat down on the stark white couch, picked up a fresh champagne flute, crossed her legs, took a sip, and looked right back at her only to say, “Well, I sell asphalt.”
* Attached you will find images of the dress hand picked by the asphalt salesman and a recipe from The Gulf Gourmet. This recipe was also featured in Best of the Best from Mississippi Cookbook 2003.
Wedding Cookies (also known as Sand Tarts)
2 Sticks of butter, softened 1 teaspoon vanilla
4 tablespoons sugar 1 cup chopped pecans
2.5 cups of flour Powdered sugar
Cream butter and add sugar slowly. Then add flour while still stirring. Add vanilla and pecans. Shape into crescents or balls on a large cookie sheet. Bake in a slow oven until light brown (250 degrees for about 45 minutes). After cookies cool, roll in powdered sugar.
