The imperfect bride: she's 3 inches taller than her fiance, wears glasses and doesn't look great in white. Even so, she lives happily ever after - Timeout

Shape, June, 2003 by Carolyn Mackler

I've never had fantasies about being a bride. Sure, I've dreamt of meeting my soul mate and getting married. But I never draped a gauzy curtain over my head during kiddie dress-up games, never imagined myself in a billowing white gown, never visualized walking down an aisle, hordes of guests craning their necks to get a glimpse of a picture-perfect me.

Last summer, when my boyfriend proposed to me beneath a bluff on a little island off the coast of Rhode Island, I said yes. We hugged, kissed, and set a date for late June. And then I freaked. I'm tall and gangly, with very little cleavage, frizz-prone hair and glasses. I have a dry-eye condition that won't allow me to wear contacts. I'm taller than my fiance by 3 inches, so I can forget about heels. I definitely won't look like that flawless female figurine perched on the wedding cake.

We decided to get married in a garden in Central Park. We fell in love in that park, so it felt right to say our vows there. Plus, there would be no aisle to parade down. And no heels to wear, since I'd plunge into the moist grass. We both wanted a small ceremony to keep things intimate.

Still, quandaries nagged at me. Should I consult with a chic stylist and pay gobs of money to plot a hair strategy for the big day? Should I talk to my ophthalmologist about contacts even though I know they'll hurt? Should I see if Victoria's Secret can transform me into a strapless C-cup? Then there's the dress. My olive skin doesn't look good in white. Hard as I try, I can't picture myself in a traditional bridal gown without cracking up. There are a lot of appropriate matrimonial emotions; a chortling bride simply isn't one of them.

My fiance and I recently went out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to discuss wedding plans. Hunched over our meal, I pulled out my notebook and we fine-tuned our guest list. I surveyed my roster of family and friends from childhood, college and adulthood. That's when it hit me. These people have stuck by me through my highs and lows, my breakups and breakouts, my good hair days and bad hair days. They're not coming to see me look perfect -- hair coifed, traditional white dress, 20/20 vision. They're just happy that I'm happy. They love me for who I am. And my fiance loves me for who I am. So I should too.

That's when I made some big decisions. My mom and I are scouring New York City for a cream-colored cocktail dress that will show off my long legs. I'm aiming for the comfortable-yet-sexy look. I'll scrunch pomade into my maverick hair and embrace my $30 cut. I'll buy funky glasses that I'm excited to wear. If it's supersunny, maybe I'll even don my orange prescription shades.

Now I'm having daily fantasies about being a bride. But in my mind I'm not the plastic woman frozen for eternity atop a too-sweet cake, clutching that little bouquet. Anyway, she doesn't even get to go on a honeymoon. I do.

Carolyn Mackler's new novel, The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things, will be published by Candlewick Press in August.