In which I relive a teenage dream

First, before I begin this post, I am deeply relieved apologetic for not having photos of my prom, they are shoved in some box in a closet in North Central Florida. Why would a 24-year-old sorta adult who had a particularly long awkward phase that may end any day now want to share pictures of her prom on the internet? Let me explain...

This weekend José and I are going to the wedding of his cousin, Almudena. It's a three-day-long open bar string of fancy dinners, brunches, and nuptuals that requires a minimum of two fancy dresses.

Back in February I went to look for one of the dresses. I had no idea what I was looking for, so I called in the expert: José's mom. Good thing I did because all of the dresses I found suitably formal were, in Spanish wedding taste, the equivalent of wearing flip flops to a funeral.

She pulled a few dresses for me to try on when I had a funny sense of horror deja vu. They were, not kidding, prom dresses.

She dissuaded me from the red one, saying it looked "too Spanish," and was pulling for a long green flowy gown when I had a peek at the price tag. I wouldn't say I ripped the dress off, but there was a fair bit of scrambling to get out of it.

They were not just prom dresses, but expensive prom dresses.

I got a good idea of what the style was and immediately poured a glass of wine fired up the Skype when I got home.

Luckily, my mom had the infinite closet space wisdom  to hold on to my prom dress. I tried to donate it at least three times to those charities that give dresses to girls who can't afford them, but my mom refused. She immediately agreed to mail the dress over, though it took a good bit of convincing that yes, I was actually going to wear my prom dress. In public. With José's family.

Fast forward a few months. The dress arrives. I can still crash diet fit into it, and it's still beautiful. Problem solved.

Now I just had to find an appropriate fascinator.

Figure 1. Eurowedding guest in full plumage.
See also: Claire's worst nightmare.

Again, I was lost. Who do you call when you need to purchase a tiny hair accessory that looks like a bird slammed into the side of your head and stayed there for six-to-eight hours and four courses and don't want to look like a total idiot (fig. 1)? Is there a hotline for that? Again, called up Jose's mom to save the day.

Tonight starts the event. I might throw one heavily photoshopped picture up here later. Wish me luck!