Or, at least I will be in a few days.
Peppe’s best bud is getting married this weekend in a little ole town near Naples called Benevento. And, we are making the trip!
We have no choice, ya see…WE are the testimone, or the witnesses, or for lack of an even better term – the Maid of Honor and Best Man.
Uh, ok.
But, what does that mean for an Italian wedding?
I asked Peppe this question a few months ago when I realized that, I, too, was graced with this honor.
“Nothing to worry about, Cicina….” he stresses. “It just means we sit at the same table as them for dinner!”
Really? That’s it?
Well, luckily for me, we crashed a wedding a few weeks back that was held during our normally scheduled Mass. Peppe pointed out the testimone.
They WEREN’T just sitting there!
Of course, If I’d have known I needed to take notes, I’d have sat at the front (although those seats were all marked off with ribbons and flowers, but that is neither here nor there). The point is – the testimone were walking around, doing things, listening to, and more importantly for me – understanding the priest!
I’m in trouble!
To add to the dancing butterflies in my stomach about my undeterminable duties, I ask myself,(as the groom-to-be has asked me once a month for the last six months) “What will I wear?”
I had decided on an elegant and never-been-worn black dress from my closet…I just needed the perfect pair of shoes. I’m in Italy – that should be easy, right?
Wrong.
So, in my everything-happens-at-the-last-minute-and-I’m-cool-with-it-that-way bravado, I head downtown.
And, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But, a beautiful dress and….
A SCONTI sign and a PROMOZIONE banner!!
I peer into the window…cute dresses, DECENT prices…I WILL GO IN!
Once they understand I am a buyer, they pull every wearable (or, maybe NOT so wearable) dress off the rack and display it lovingly on the counter for me to see. No, No, No..oh Dio No…uh, maybe!
So, I settle on sexy, slinky, lavender and deep gray dress. I try it on.
YIKES!
I peek my head around the corner of the dressing room door, “Do you have one a little bit bigger?”
I motion to my hips and buttocks area. “This ain’t pretty!” I want to say. But, instead I muster, “Non mi piace, questa” as I make a general sweep with my arms to display the area that I don’t piace.
Now, I can’t really quote ya here, because I don’t know exactly HOW she said this. But, the meaning was clear. “They don’t COME any BIGGER!”
GULP! (Embarassed me)
So, they hand me another dress. Size? XL
“This is the same size,” they tell me, “only the fabric is more flowing…” or some kind of similiar bullshit! (As you can see, I don’t like being told the biggest dress in the store is too tight on my fat arse!)
So, I take the XL, and, to my relief, it is too big. I show them all the places it is too big, while the man tells me it looks perfect, and the woman finds the same dress in a smaller size.
Now, I don’t normally like to go around telling the world wide web my dress size, but I need to prove a point (if only to myself)!
In America
I
wear
a
size
six!
And, It’s not just me! It seems other Americans can’t wear Italian clothes! Even when they are pregant!
In the end, I settled on that pretty, flowing, yellow dress. Only, I am still a newbie and I wear with (apparent) pride my RIP ME OFF CAUSE I AIN’T ITALIAN stamp, and well, I didn’t get the sconti. But, they did alter it for me to perfection.
So, I am ready to go.
Dress? Got it!
Shoes? Got ‘em!
Handbag? Working on it!
Duties? Boh!
