Letting go

Last week I went to pick up a dress at the cleaners. I dropped it off last year. That's a long time for a dress to be at the cleaners. I know. It's been a crazy year.

In any case, the woman at the cleaners said they didn't have my dress, although my ticket was still in the system along with my phone number. This is kind of a big deal considering this was my wedding dress.

Here's a bit of how the conversation went:

Me (as calmly as possible): Why wouldn't you have my dress?
Woman: We get rid of things after a certain amount of time. It might be in the basement. I don't know.
Me: Can you check for me?
Woman: I can't right now.
awkward pause
Me: Ok, where would it be if it's not in the basement?
Woman: We donate. We're not responsible for clothes after two months.
Me: Ok, I'd love it if you could look for it and give me a call.
Woman: What does the dress look like?
Me: Well, it's red and knee-length and beautiful and I love it and it was my wedding dress so you can understand why I'm a little frustrated.
Woman: I can't call you until tomorrow.
Me: Ok, thanks.

Then I went to my car and cried.

Yes, I know that it was my fault for leaving a dress at the cleaners for more than nine months. I was frustrated. I was really angry. I was heavyhearted. I know, it was just a dress, but there was so much attached to it.

Enough whining. It felt silly that I was so worked up over a dress. It's pretty inconsequential in the giant scheme of life.

So I sat in my car and processed. And then I let it go. It was my wedding dress, and yes, I loved it, but if it was indeed donated, my hope was that some woman somewhere was wearing this dress and feeling fabulous!

This is the dress...and me in it. Along with my husband, Nick.

 Photos by Moment Shared Photography