I am struggling to find a dress for a wedding. At my mother’s invitation, I sent her my measurements. She has gone to great trouble to find me a silk dress from a shop that doesn’t take returns. It fits reasonably well, but I don’t like it. Is it my mother’s problem or mine?
It’s not as if you’re Zsa Zsa Gabor or Elizabeth Taylor: you’ll be wearing the dress only the once. If you hate it so much that you can’t bear to wear it at all, you could always just keep it for some other use. You could turn it into cushion covers, for instance, or start going to fancy dress parties as Miss Havisham. Or you could put it in your lavatory to discreetly hide a giant toilet roll, the way people hide lavatory paper under the skirts of Flamenco-dancer dolls.
What you can’t do is stick your mother for the money. “At my mother’s invitation” sounds like a weasel’s way of shifting the blame on to your ma; like sliding the tablecloth a little, so that it looks as if it was your neighbour who spilt their soup so clumsily.
If you’ve grown out of having your mother spit on her hankie to wipe chocolate stains from around your mouth, you should also have stopped doing things because your mother suggested them; otherwise you might not even be marrying the man you’ve chosen (YOU: “Mum, we’re planning to have a civil ceremony”. YOUR MOTHER: “Then why are you marrying him!”).
If there were any chance of your not sharing your mother’s taste in wedding dresses, you should never have divulged your measurements. By doing so, you have entered into a pact whereby you gave her licence to shop on your behalf. It is unfortunate, but it is also your burden to rid yourself of your unwanted dress. You could always sell it to Elizabeth Taylor.
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