When I slam the door on her hand, I'm sure she realizes it was a mistake. I didn't know that locker room protocol around here requires a sales assistant to put your scrubs on you. With dress no. 10, I am an expert in this exercise: head up, arms down and turn towards the mirror. At no. 20, I learned the "more is less" rule: The more sprigs of faux pearls and jazz concert sequins adorn the dress, the cheaper the dress. A simple dress costs more than a mortgage. When choosing my dress, I tried on 30. At the first fitting, as I gaze at my bridal reflection in the mirror, the reality of the situation overwhelms me: 200 guests and a 150-foot aisle. The blood drains from my face. I weakly mumble my apologies to the seamstress as I teeter off the pedestal and crumble to the floor, a life-size mushroom of satin silk organza. "I hope I didn't wrinkle the dress. I was about to faint." He sighs. “You brides really need to eat more.” Yes, it's lunch time after all and I'm complaining about wedding preparations to one of my brothers-in-law. He and my sister have been married for ten years. Since then I have rarely heard him get sentimental. Just as I'm about to lament the state of veils in the '90s, he does just that. "You know