I made an appointment with someone who would alter my bridesmaid's dress without making me feel like I was completely clueless about such womanly things. She said she had plenty of time to make the alterations, but, she said kindly, "please do bring in your shoes and bra."

This meant that I had to buy shoes and a bra.

I have at least enough to sense to comprehend that I can't wear my Mary Jane styled Earth shoes or strappy, rubber-soled Tevas with a satiny periwinkle gown. Nor can I wear the flimsy cotton thing I wear that masquerades as a sports bra for women who are still waiting for their breasts to appear.

So yesterday (when one student canceled because she was striking the set of a play and another student canceled because she happens to attend one of the schools currently shut down to prevent the spread of the ever-so-mysterious Swine flu--oh, whoops--H1N1 virus), I grabbed the opportunity to devote some time to preparing myself for this venture as a Bridesmaid.

First stop: Payless Shoes. Yes, I decided to go for sensibly priced shoes (which, in the end, means not-so-sensibly cut around the awkward shape of my small, wide foot). I deliberated for what seemed like hours, trying on this pair, then that pair and attempting to walk in skinny heels. I toppled over not once but at least three times, nearly taking out an entire display of Airwalks. The woman behind the counter was filing her nails and eyeing me suspiciously. Did she think I was going to jack a pair of shoes? What, me?!

I finally opted for a pair that seemed to fit me the most comfortably but that also sported an impressive height. I don't think Payless even sells dress-up shoes without dramatic heels.

Then I remembered that I happen to own an actual bra--one with all the busty details: a push up wire, padded cups (because I don't think they even make bras in my size without padding), and maybe even fancy lace. I managed to find the bra, tucked away in a drawer with other things I never wear.

And on I went, to the kind women who agreed to alter my dress, un-sensible shoes and busty bra in tow.

When I arrived, she had me slip into a dressing room to put on the dress, with the vital shoes and bra. I carefully put on the dress, shoes, and busty bra, then told her I was ready for the pins. She came in, took one look at me and said, fervently, "Oh, you're not wearing that bra are you?"

She must have seen the disappointment on my face. Now I didn't have the right bra?! Why was this entire process so difficult? Navigating the dress-up world leaves me feeling completely lost and ridiculously frumpy. I stammered something about it being the only bra I have.

She must have felt sorry for me (either because I was so clearly clueless or because I was so clearly in need of a bra that actually fits me, I can't be sure), because she put her hand on my arm and said, "You look lovely. You just can't wear that bra."

She had me slowly turn in a circle while she inspected the lines and contours of the dress, then she said, "You can't wear any bra at all with this dress. No bra. No bra!"

This created a number of challenges, because without the padded bra, the chest of the dress drooped drastically. "Why don't they make bridesmaid dresses that fit women with the body of a twelve-year-old boy?" I asked.

"I will sew you some cups into the dress," she said matter-of-factly.

She asked me to slowly turn in a circle while she pinned the dress for the hem. And that's when my bitterness about the whole process turned a bit softer. As I stood there, in my un-sensible shoes and partially fitting dress, with this warm and unfamiliar woman at my feet, holding pins in her teeth and gently folding the excess fabric that spilled onto the floor, I realized that (antiquated and patriarchal as weddings may be) this process of women tending to each other in preparation for the union of friends is part of a long tradition. And I felt beautiful, standing there in satin periwinkle, even though the dress fit funny, and my hair was mussed in long, tangly pigtails.

And I have had the honor of being there with my friend Nicole as she goes through multiple wedding dress fittings. She stands in front of a full-length mirror, another warm and unfamiliar woman at her feet, pinning, folding, gently smoothing out the long pieces of soft white, while another bridesmaid and I sit, awed at the sight of Nicole's dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She is stunningly beautiful, and we, a roomful of unlikely grouped women, gathered in a small room surrounded by fabric tape and mirrors, are all mesmerized by the intricacy of the inlaid beading, the detailed stitching and draw of the waist, the long, billowing arcs of silky white textile brushing the floor.

So in the end, I am grateful to be a part of this. I may be clueless about how to apply make-up or how to shop for shoes, or even that one needs to have her shoes before getting her dress hemmed, but I still find some loveliness in the tradition and careful attention that goes into this whole thing. There is this unexpected intimacy, an inherent sweetness, about the care and fuss and gentle handling of fabric and folds.

Shoes and bra kerfuffle aside, maybe this stint at being a bridesmaid (just this one time, for Nicole) isn't so bad.