I'm thinking about walking down the aisle in jeans and my favorite navy blue sweater that I got at Kmart when I was in high school with the burn mark near the bum, a souvenier from getting too friendly with a lightbulb when I was in college.

But I'm afraid of my mother.

Actually, I'm afraid she would launch herself over the crowd to throttle me on the altar before pitching my corpse over the side of the boat. You may think I'm exaggerating, but my mom really wants to see me in a dress. She's been waiting an awfully long time to unload me. I think she may have offered Ed 40 goats and three bags of rice.

Because I'm afraid and my mother is determined, we went wedding dress shopping again. The long story short: We're going to have a dress made. The long story long . . . .

We headed out to Waltham, Mass. Lareine's bridal was first up on the list. I had spoken with the woman over the phone, clearly expressed my desired for an unusual dress and sent Web site photos of those I fancied. The woman sat us down brought out two dresses, which she unceremoniously threw up on hooks; looked us in the eye and said, "I hate that I don't have a dress for you."

Excuse me? Could that have come up in the phone conversation yesterday? Like when you called to confirm my appointment? Could you have tacked on, "And we'll be showing you nothing" by the way?

The one-hour appointment lasted 10 minutes.

Off we went to Yolanda's, also in Waltham. The service was excellent and they had many dresses, none of which suited me. However, I did have the distinct pleasure of standing in my underwear in front of my mother while I tried on dresses.

As we got in the car, she "delicately" broached the subject. "Are you doing exercises to tone up, dear?" she asked. "I hear yoga is good for that kind of thing."

Some things you just can't invent.