I read, in a fantasy book which has melded in my fading memory with a dozen others a three-quarter page description of a wedding dress.
What prevented this from becoming utter boredom was that it was written from the point of view of the best man, whose only interest in feminine attire was removing it, and was utterly hilarious; comments on fabrics ('smooth, shiny stuff') and general impracticability for swinging a sword, dancing, cooking a meal or the only other important feminine function, access for sexual intercourse indispersed with observations of how it brought tears to the eyes of the assembled females, doubtless in sympathy with their sister cooking inside all that cloth.
Totally excessive, but the banquet that followed was almost a let down, except when the fact that the bride was still wearing the thing relaunched the ruminations.
So 'how much is too much' can never be defined, except 'when it starts to drag'. And that is an extremely difficult point to define.