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Columnist

Cindy Lange-Kubick joined the Lincoln Journal Star in 1994 and has loved covering life in her hometown ever since. Will write for chocolate. Or coffee.

Earlier this summer, the maid of honor at an Omaha wedding walked down the aisle in an inflatable T-Rex costume.

The New York Post wrote about it last week and about a bazillion other news outlets followed suit.

It’s too bad bridesmaids don’t wear suits. It would make the whole reason this dinosaur story went so big extinct.

In case you missed it, Christina Meador dressed up as a pea-brained carnivore after her soon-to-be-married sister let it be known her bridesmaids could wear whatever they wanted.

Emphasis on whatever. Meador was happy — Halloween costume for life! (She removed the costume for post-wedding dancing and cake-eating.)

The bride was happy. (“It’s not a joke, it’s a giant middle finger at spending thousands of dollars and putting ungodly amounts of pressure on ourselves ...,” Deanna Adams reportedly posted in response to a disagreeable comment.)

And she wasn’t the only one.

If you’ve ever been a bridesmaid, you know how tempting this act of apparel subversion might be.

After all, has there ever been a truly beautiful bridesmaid dress?

Doubtful.

Has there ever been a bridesmaid dress that was worth the money the bridesmaid paid for the dress?

Never.

Has there ever been a bridesmaid dress that the bridesmaid has worn again in the public square? Perhaps to another wedding? A trip to Vegas? On a Disney cruise?

Again: NO.

And let me take this opportunity to apologize to the bridesmaids at my wedding for the floor-length yellow chiffon dresses with daisy rickrack.

They were hideous, as if a small band of hippies had mated with a highway cleanup crew.

The wedding industry knows this, which is why it's getting rich on the Perfect Matching Wedding, while the bridesmaids of the world are stuck with uber-expensive dusting rags.

My favorite bridesmaid dress story involves a bridesmaid who didn’t have her strapless dress properly altered and found herself with some extra room up front. She improvised with a pair of disposable diapers retrieved from the flower girl’s diaper bag.

No one would have known except she flung them out — one at a time — on the dance floor during the reception.

No word on the fate of the dress.

But bridesmaid dresses linger. They hang in a lonely huddle in the backs of closets. They languish at Goodwill. They remind you of the vacation home you might have in Florida if not for those 2 yards of sateen. And what exactly is sateen if not the devil’s own cloth made exclusively for bridesmaid dresses?

Bridesmaid dresses haunt dreams.

The vinyl shower curtain bridesmaid dress with the Bo Peep hat. The bridesmaid dress with a Yoda hood nearly ignited by the unity candle. The special bridesmaid dress for pregnant bridesmaids.

The bridesmaid dress with the shoes stained to match — that stained the bridesmaid’s feet.

All of them destined for the same lonely fate.

And so it’s fitting — Oh, the bridesmaid dress fittings! — that the T-Rex bridesmaid story hit a cultural nerve. The story of Rudy played down a grassy backyard wedding aisle instead of a hash-marked football field.

The bravery of one woman — and her sister — standing up to an industry gone amok.

Meador posted a photo of the happy nuptials on Facebook last month — attracting thousands of shares and comments — a social media sensation before her dinosaur took the fancy of the click-happy mainstream media.

In her caption, she made the perfect bridesmaid vow: “I regret nothing.”

Video, posts from the T-Rex wedding

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Reach the writer at 402-473-7218 or clangekubick@journalstar.com.

On Twitter @TheRealCLK.

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