“This is a gorgeous choice. As you can see, this dress features a low back, perfect for showing off some skin. But not too much, because it is your wedding day. Now, I see lots of brides, and some of them are going for a more simple, subdued look. Lots of them want a more subtle elegance.”

I turn slightly to the left and then to the right, regarding my reflection in the mirror. The supple fabric of the low back arches in slightly, conforming to my hips, and I instinctively put my hand on my waist, letting my fingers settle into my curves.

“And this is not the dress for them,” I say, catching my manager’s eyes in the mirror.

“No, not at all. This is not what you want when you look for subtle. The lace on the front is a double-overlay, just adding to what would have already been a rich, opulent look.”

“Very rich,” I say, arching an eyebrow at her as I turn to face the mirror.

“The four-layer skirt is fabricated from raw silk. The dress is available in bone and champagne colors.”

“Four layers, huh? Champagne? And it’s pretty enough to eat.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Anna. Not with that red lipstick on.”

Maggie steps up onto the small platform where I’m standing, settling next to me and crossing her arms in front of her chest, flashing me a little smirk in the mirror.

I should say mirrors. Because where I’m standing in the front room of the small bridal boutique on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I’m surrounded by mirrors. It’s like one of those carnival fun houses. It’s fun, but it can be a little wacky and wild sometimes. Especially when the brides are out in full force.

“Hm, well,” I say, puckering up for my boss, “remember you chose this lipstick for me. You’re the one who said the brides like to see how a red lip would look with the white dresses.”

“Not white,” she corrects me with a little hidden sarcasm in her voice, the kind she uses with customers when they’re annoying her, “champagne.”

“I have to ask, Mag. What’s something like this gonna set you back?”

“Me?” she says, craning her neck forward slightly. “Um, it’s not gonna set me back anything. I’m not exactly in the market for something like this.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, glancing up at her. “What’s the price on this delicious dress?”

“Oh, you mean what’s it gonna set back the person who’s gonna buy it,” she says, stepping off the platform and picking up her appointment binder from one of the couches off to the side of the mirrors. “Just a cool twenty grand.”

That’s a lot of money. Or maybe it isn’t. I really don’t know. All I know is that the price of this dress is somewhere around half of the money I make in a year, which really, really makes it out of my price range, even with credit cards.

But then, the girls who waltz through the doors of this shop aren’t exactly the kind of people who would look to me for an opinion on how much is too much to spend on a dress.

One dress. One day of your life. One magical day where you get to slip on the dress of your dreams and get to marry your very own real-life prince charming.

I shake my head, smiling and turning around in the mirror again to get a look at myself from the back. I’m only half being sarcastic when I say you have that one special day to get married. Because with divorce statistics the way they are, and the amount of sheer dollars that the median wedding costs these days, it’s a little hard to romanticise the whole thing.

But then again, this dress looks freaking awesome on me.

And it makes my body look pretty banging.

I hop off the little champagne-colored carpeted platform and go over to a table where we have a few bouquets of fresh flowers, selecting one with a pretty mix of white and pink roses. I step back up onto the platform and spin around again, and it does feel really good.

“Don’t get too attached,” Maggie says, flipping the pages in her binder. “Our bride-to-be has a lot more choices she had me pull for her. I’m gonna push this one, though. I think this one is the prettiest, I really do. And it’s one of the more expensive, which of course makes me want to sell it as soon as humanly possible.”

So there will be more dresses for me to try on, which I’m used to. It does get a little annoying putting all these dresses on just have to take them off again, but that’s my job.

I’m a model. I’ve had people literally laugh at me when I say that (and then they apologize), because I decidedly do not look like what you picture when you imagine a model. I am not tall, I am not thin, and I have an ass and boobs. You would never call me fat, but you’d never call me skinny, either. And you’d definitely never call me a model.

Except that I am.

I do some modeling for the boutique’s website. I do some modeling to ensure that the fit of the dresses is correct. I try the dresses on for the lucky brides-to-be who come into the boutique and want to get an idea of whether they’ll like a dress without having to try on every single one they’re interested in. And it’s for that reason that I have to make sure I’m always the same size.

You ever get sick of eating carbs? Sounds crazy, right? Well, what if your job required you to stay on the curvy side, even when sometimes all you want is one of those fatty salads with extra Caesar dressing and no croutons, maybe because you want your stomach to be a bit flatter, or maybe because that’s just what you’re in the mood for? Yeah, you can’t, because then it turns into a whole thing, and part of my job is making sure that my measurements are predictable.

You want to go for a jog, you want to be maybe a tiny bit slimmer? Then you’ve got to sit down and have a chat with the owner of the boutique about your future here. They can start slotting you to work with clients one size down, of course they can, sweetie, but then you’ve got to be careful not to gain the weight back.

“If I ever got married,” I say, delicately grabbing the soft fabric of the skirt between my fingers, “this is the kind of dress I’d like.”

“Then you’d better get a higher paying job or get a husband who has one,” Maggie says, snapping her binder shut. “Now, enough playing around. This is serious business. Let’s get to work.”

“Of course,” I say, standing up straight and holding the bouquet of flowers right in front of my belly-button like I’m supposed to. I look like a perfect porcelain doll, the perfect bride on the most wonderful day of her life.

Except it isn’t. And I’m not. Because I might be in this fabulous gown, with the perfect makeup and the white lace Manolos, and I even might pass for one of these rich uptown chicks, except that I am very much not. And I might look like I am dressed up for my wedding day, but I’m not. I’m dressed up for someone else’s wedding. And at the end of the day, I won’t be snuggling up with my new hubby in some fantastic hotel suite or hopping on a plane for our honeymoon. I’ll be putting on my regular PJs and watching some TV alone, which is fine. But it doesn’t match up with the costume I’m wearing right now. It just doesn’t.

And that dissonance is starting to get to me. Just a little.

I’m the girl who gets poked and prodded and has accessories clipped to her hair and diamond tennis bracelets draped around her wrists, and at the end of the day I have to take it all off and give it all back.

It’s getting tiring, all the pretending. It’s getting old, all the congratulations I hear directed toward other people.

It’s always about other people.

“You really do look beautiful,” Maggie says, settling onto one of the champagne-tufted couches. “You do.”

“Thanks,” I say, putting a smile on my face. That’s something else I’m good at. Putting a smile on my face. And it’s not fake.

Not exactly.