My mom and I had spent the last hour in a wedding dress consignment boutique. Even though the dresses were used or samples, they still had spit-take price points. There was a gauzy, Grecian asymmetrical gown. There was a satin 1930s-glamour backless number. All in "sample size" (not small), which means they fit me like a glove.
This was all very different from, let's call it Dress Zero, which came to be mine quite unceremoniously. It jumped out at me from the pages of a J Crew catalog. I found it on eBay new for half off retail. It came to my doorstep and I threw it on. Nick texted a picture to my folks who emoticoned their approval. And then it didn't make a peep for many months until I took it to a seamstress who, I guess, didn't understand that I was not interested in looking like some B-movie outer-space porno bride.
We left the shop empty-handed, and popped into the pub next door. After the server dropped off our massive happy-hour-special domestics and took our menus, my mom snapped into action. Taking a long pull from her beer, she began to sketch furiously on the cocktail napkin. She was drawing Dress Zero, and in a flurry of arrows and dashed lines, showed me how she thought it could be fixed.
And sure enough, the next day the dress was restored to its original form. Since I didn't actually watch her fix it, she may as well have said an incantation over the dress as it contorted and sent thread shooting forth from crooked seams and twisted hems.
This has taught me that I, inconveniently, am not always the best applicant for the task of solving all my problems. And that moms know magic, even if they say they don't.