Homeward Bound

While Sam prepared to depart for the airport with Danielle, it soon became clear that those still at the party—including the bride, her mother and her fiancé—had all but forgotten that I, too, needed a ride. Upon reminding them, an emotional storm began brewing. Quiet conversations were held, which I was clearly not invited to be part of. Danielle, who moments ago had been laughing hysterically, was quiet, gloomy and depressed. Finally, it was announced that Sam would be riding with Danielle’s fiancé and I would go with Danielle—past my house to her house. I would also be driving.

It seemed Danielle, who had just spent the entire day being the center of attention, was suffering from a random but serious anxiety attack. She claimed she was physically incapable of driving and needed me to drive her straight home. From there, her fiancé was going to pick me up and take me to my place in time to have dinner with my family. The situation was odd, but I went along with it. After all, Danielle and Jon lived just minutes from the airport. He’d be able to drop Sam off and pick me up shortly thereafter.

We all said our goodbyes and took off. By the time we arrived at her place, Danielle seemed to be back to her old self—cheery and chatty. We carried food and gifts up to her apartment, chatted and putzed around on the computer a little, checking our e-mail. Forty minutes later, when Jon still hadn’t arrived, we knew something was wrong. Danielle placed a call to him, only to find out he had gone straight from the airport to his gym and wasn’t planning on being home for another two hours. Danielle reminded him that I, too, needed a ride, but Jon stuck to his guns. He wouldn’t be home until 7 that night, which means I wouldn’t get home until after 8 p.m.

Suddenly, I felt like a trapped animal. On a Sunday evening, restaurants that were open weren’t going to stay open much later than 9. I needed to get home. My family—including my seven-year-old niece—was waiting. I looked at Danielle who looked back at me. Certainly, after the fab day I had planed, she could at least drive me to a metro station; it was only 10 minutes away, and even then, I’d still be looking at an hour-long ride. But, like her fiancé, Danielle refused to budge, claiming she was still suffering from anxiety and simply could not drive. Her advice? I should cab it home.

My spirits didn’t just drop—they crashed. I was living a nightmare. An hour’s cab ride was easily going to cost $80—money that I didn’t have. How much worse could it get? I had devoted so much time, effort, and money planning and preparing for this party, dedicating myself fully to my friend and her happiness. Yet, when I needed a ride home, it was refused to me. I was utterly and completely crushed.

I had no alternative but to sit it out and wait. I called my partner to let him know what was going on. An hour and a half after making that phone call, at 8:15, I walked through the door to my apartment emotionally drained and defeated.

Frustrations Abound

I politely introduced and tried to establish myself as the matriarch in the room—aside from the bride, of course. There were no introductions back and, after a bit of an awkward pause, I encouraged everyone to enjoy themselves and the food. It seems the only ones listening, though, were Elizabeth and Jennifer. They immediately rushed to the buffet-style table, filled their plates and stuffed their faces. Ahead of guests and even the bride, they rushed outside to the home’s covered patio, secured for themselves the best seats in the room, and began chit-chatting away. The rests of the guests hesitantly followed while Sam and I stared at each other. Did that seriously just happen?

Games came next. Of course, bridesmaids Elizabeth and Jennifer won all of the prizes. Realizing those were the chances, though, I moved on to the last and most fun game. This one, however, took a bit of explaining. Each guest would be given a card with the name of a famous person written on it—only, they couldn’t look at the card. They had to use tape to attach the card to their foreheads and—cue the headache. I never had a chance to finish the explanation. Interrupted by a sound worse than nails on a chalkboard, I sat stunned as Jennifer let it be known that she was not, under any circumstance, going to look like a moron with a card taped to her forehead. She strongly encouraged everyone else at the party to forego the game. That’s right—the same person who was ecstatic to win ‘count the M&Ms in the jar’ was afraid of looking foolish.

Luckily, the bride came to my aid and we went ahead with the game. Those who participated spent the next hour in a fit of giggles—even the bride’s fiancé and his best man joined in. It was definitely the highlight of the shower and it seemed all of my hard work had been vindicated. Finally, something was going the way it was supposed to!

I relished the moment, but it didn’t last long. With no warning, queens Elizabeth and Jennifer up and left. Their departure signaled the premature end of the shower and soon, other guests followed suit. Once again, Sam and I were left to do the work. We had dirty plates, glasses, used wrapping paper, furniture, picnic tables, and decorations to clean up. All of the food had to be packed away and divided up between the bride and her mother, the drink bins needed to be emptied of ice and water, and the bride needed help carrying gifts to her car. Adding to the stress, we had 45 minutes to complete the work because Sam still had to catch a flight home.

Working diligently, we met our deadline. Despite the frustrations, I considered  the party a success. Guests had fun and the bride was happy. My job was complete. I was ready to go home, where I had planned to meet my partner and his family for dinner before they, too, returned home from their visit.

Little did I know that the frustrations had only just begun.

The Weekend Of Wedding Awesomeness

The weeks flew by. After unanimously deciding upon the bridesmaid dresses, I dutifully ordered and paid the deposit on my gorgeous, chocolate brown Watters and Watters dress. I shopped for the shoes I’d wear on the big day and continued to plan for the bridal shower, keeping track of RSVPs and making lists of any last-minute items I might need. Finally, the Weekend of Wedding Awesomeness, so dubbed by the bride, had arrived. The plan was straightforward enough: get drunk Friday at the bachelorette party, use Saturday to sober up, and attend the shower Sunday at noon. Everything was on schedule to be perfect. And then, family happened.

Armed with a guidebook and map, my partner’s family chose to visit the same weekend as the Weekend of Wedding Awesomeness. I explained the situation and, to my relief, my in-laws were understanding and accommodating. Though I desperately wanted to spend time with my seven-year-old niece, I knew my commitment was to Danielle. This, after all, was her weekend and I wasn’t about to ruin it.

Minus a few hiccups, the bachelorette party went well. I’ve never been the best around large groups of new people, so it wasn’t terribly surprising that I found myself relegated to the corner for most of the evening. The fact that the other women ignored my attempts to join in was disappointing, but I didn’t let a little off-kilter chemistry get me down. My priorities were set on Sunday’s bridal shower.

Oh, the bridal shower.

This was my chance to seriously fulfill the role of bridesmaid. I would kiss-ass, charm, entertain, and delight not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I took my role as bridesmaid seriously and hoped Danielle would realize just how dedicated I really was.

I don’t have a car, so Danielle and Sam—who had flown in for the weekend—picked me up at my home bright and early Sunday morning. With a sheet cake, 72 rolls of toilet paper, and three bags full of games, prizes, decorations and favors, I made my way out the door blissfully ignorant of the trouble ahead. Danielle drove the 60 minutes to her mother’s house, and, just as we were pulling up, the other bridesmaids, Elizabeth and Jennifer, arrived.

The bride’s mother immediately greeted us and helped us into the kitchen, where Sam and I started preparing for the day’s festivities. There was fruit salad to make, chicken salad sandwiches to put together, decorations to set up and prizes to display. Sam and I worked tirelessly to make everything perfect. Apparently, we were doing damned good jobs because Elizabeth and Jennifer had made themselves comfortable in the living room and weren’t about to leave their Lay-Z-Bridesmaid thrones.

With no time to argue, Sam and I kicked it into higher gear. Drinks still had to be iced, games needed to be set up, silverware, plates, cups, napkins, and favors needed to be positioned. My last task was to put the finishing touches on a game and I needed a computer to do so. I had to print out 20 sheets of paper with questions participants would answer about the bride—something that couldn’t be done until the day of the shower. Murphy ’s Law was, of course, on my side. The computer the bride offered me didn’t have Microsoft Word, so the file I had created prior to coming was useless; I was forced to type out questions in Notepad. Unfortunately, the computer’s 3-in-1 printer printing function wasn’t working, so I resorted to handwriting the questions—all 20 sets of them. As I was doing this, guests were arriving. The shower was about to start and for me, it was a race against time. I heard the bride introducing her guests to her bridesmaids. Just as I was about to greet the group, Danielle loudly proclaimed, “…and the last bridesmaid in the other room putzing around on the computer!”

Putzing!? What? I was so—never mind! I didn’t have time to be angry. The party was starting and it was my goal to ensure everyone had a fabulous time. I smoothed down my dress, took a deep breath, put a smile on my face and entered the guest-filled living room.

The Honeymoon Period

My forte into the world of real, probably-going-to-happen-but-not-counting-on-it bridesmaidery began with a quaint lunch at a local seafood restaurant, where all of the women in the bridal party were introduced to one another. There was the Maid of Honor from a far-away state, Sam; the extroverted red-headed belly dancer Elizabeth; and the blunt but seemingly loveable Jennifer. The group was solid and I had high hopes. Enthusiastic about the event, everyone agreed to pitch in and assignments were doled out. Sam would take on the brunt of the work, essentially being the go-to woman the day of the wedding. Elizabeth agreed to arrange the bachelorette party and I happily volunteered to take on the bridal shower, a task that had me working alongside the bride’s mother. Jennifer agreed to split her efforts between the three of us, helping out when and where she was needed.

Feeling a burst of energy from our luncheon, I raced home and, for all intents and purposes, turned into Martha Stewart. With 35 people on the shower’s guest list, I envisioned a sophisticated, rustic-chic-themed party for 20 or so women, complete with elaborate invitations, eco-friendly favors, and a cake that matched the bride’s high-end taste. I coordinated with the bride’s mother, who generously offered her home and agreed to cook for the shower. I would be responsible for the games, favors, prizes, decorations, cake, invitations, envelopes and who knows what else.

The bill for this extravagance wasn’t cheap, but I didn’t mind. I knew my reward was to come: Danielle was a good friend deserving of great bridesmaids. In return for our favors, she promised to treat us to manicures and pedicures the day before the wedding. Besides, weren’t Sam, Elizabeth, Jennifer and I all in this together? I was certain they would recognize my efforts and offer their own contributions.

Finally, I sent e-mails detailing my plans to the bride and the rest of the women in the wedding. Content that I was off to a great start, I sat back and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

If the other women were as excited as I was, they certainly weren’t showing it. Like a good Midwest girl, though, I gave them the benefit of the doubt: everyone must be busy. When it became clear that no one was going to offer suggestions or advice, however, I forged ahead with my plan, even more determined to be the bridesmaid I believed Danielle deserved.

Third Time's A Charm

With two invitations to be a bridesmaid and two subsequent retractions under my belt, my record wasn’t looking so hot. Forget 27 Dresses—I was 0 for 2. Still, I was able to put the past behind me and move on. I was continuing to enjoy my new job in my new home and was slowly but surely making friends. One friendship that blossomed early was with a woman named Danielle. Quirky like me, we got along fairly well, but by no means would I have called her a best friend. So when she asked me to be part of her wedding, I was surprised. Realizing the gravity of the situation and given my past strikeouts, I took a few days to make my decision. Could this really be it? Was my dream about to be fulfilled? Or would I once again get kicked to the curb?

Skeptical, I made certain Danielle was aware of my flubbed past. After she promised not to kick me out of her wedding, change the date, or otherwise ruin my chances at being the best damned bridesmaid ever, I said yes.

With that, the pre-wedded bliss began.

Danielle was to be married Memorial Day Weekend at The Danbury, an old Victorian farmhouse that sat on ten sprawling acres. The property featured a number of amenities, including short hiking trails, a manicured lawn, a large covered porch perfect for dancing, and a 50-year-old weeping willow that immediately caught Danielle’s eye. This is where she was to have her ceremony. Once the ceremony and reception site was booked, Danielle turned her attention toward entertainment. It wasn’t hard to come by. An avid dancer, Danielle had many friends in the performing arts community, including one of her other bridesmaids, who performed professionally with a group of belly dancers.

This was shaping up to be one fantastic wedding.

Second Isn't Much Better

My next opportunity to serve as a bridesmaid didn’t come until nearly three years later, when a close friend from high school announced her engagement to her life partner and very best friend. They were two peas in a pod. The happy couple met at the place where we all first met and became great friends: a mom n’ pop restaurant that was, for us, the catalyst to real life. It was where we all held our first jobs—the bride and I as waitresses and the bride’s fiancé as a busboy.

Harold’s Kitchen served as a backdrop to many fond memories and great first experiences, so it was no surprise when Allyson asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding. Like the first offer, I was ecstatic and honored—this time, even more so. For I was the only member of the wedding party that was not family. I beamed with pride at the thought that I would get to share my friend’s big day in such a special way.

As with most wedding parties, though, a complication quickly arose. By this point in my life, I was on my own and had landed a great job half-way across the country. Logistics would be difficult, but I would make it happen. Because the wedding was scheduled for early the next year, it meant I would forego Christmas with my family. Instead, I would use vacation time to fly home a few weeks into the New Year for the big bash. Before any of that could happen, though, the first point of business had to be addressed—dresses. Being that my friend had already chosen her gown with her mother at her side, the only thing left was my dress. At that same fateful bridal salon I had visited years previously, we found the perfect one: a chocolate brown, v-neck dress with that same satin sheen.

With the item number in hand, I flew back across the country, prepared to order the dress at a store near my home. As far as I knew, things were great. However, moments before stepping out the door to make the gown purchase, I called my friend to share with her the good news and catch up on wedding planning. As it turned out, a lot of planning had happened. So much so, that the date of the wedding had been moved up considerably. As for the wedding party, well, it no longer existed. The stress had simply been too much. Instead of having an all-out bash, Allyson had opted for a small wedding in her church, surrounded only by family.

This time, I could at least take solace in the fact that the news didn’t come in the form of public torment in front of my peers. But it was still hard to take. The scheduling change meant I would miss out on my friend’s most important day.

First Is The Worst

All I wanted out of life was simple: Nice friends. A good job. And to hold a position of honor at someone’s wedding. Yes, I wanted to be a bridesmaid. As crazy as it may seem, the rite of passage was rather elusive for me—something always fleeting, never quite attainable. I had seen plenty of friends say “I do,” but always from a pew—never from the aisle or alter. I came close to fulfilling the role reserved for sisters and besties twice, only to have the invitations revoked for extenuating circumstances. In my mind and in my heart, I knew I was doomed.

All that changed in the spring of 2011, when a semi-close friend asked the question I’d been waiting a lifetime to hear. Though I was puzzled by the invitation, I gladly accepted the offer. Blissfully ignorant at the fate I had just sealed, I gleefully skipped down the road of no return. In my mind, the invitation meant that I had arrived. I was accepted. I had officially been invited to join the club. In essence, my dream had finally come true. Little did I know that it would turn into a nightmare I never could have imagined.

Disclaimer: The events listed below are, to the best of my knowledge, true. Only names and dates have been changed.

First Is The Worst

Like most little girls, I had some dreams of my wedding day, but my real wedding dream was to hold a position of honor as a bridesmaid. It was, after all, in my scatterbrained, dilapidated mind, a rite of passage full of luxury and esteem. So, when a former roommate from college asked me via an excited phone call to be part of her special day, I gladly accepted. It was 2007 and this was my chance—or so I thought.

Soon after her engagement, the wedding preparation began. Colors were chosen. A venue was booked. And a dress had to be purchased. For the women of this bridal party—who coincidently all happened to be college co-eds, it was more than a simple task—this was a mission. The plan was straight forward enough: drive three hours to the biggest, best bridal store in the metro area, determine the best dresses for the bride’s glamorous gaggle of gals and, in the grand finale, secure a gorgeous, white, tulle-filled gown for the bride.

First up was Ruth, the tall, blonde beauty who lives life poised with grace and elegance. She tried on a simple, sage green number made of shimmery satin. Second to go was Sarah, an always-humble, soft-spoken girl with a gentle soul. Fulfilling my role to a T, I oohed and awed at both try-ons, excited that my chance to step into the dress was next. Except that chance never came. As soon as Sarah had changed back into her street clothes, the bride proclaimed the hunt for her own gown was on. Little did I know my world was about to come crashing down.

When I asked about my chance to try on the bridesmaid dress, a sudden and awkward silence fell over the store. In front of the rest of the party, the bride put her arm around my shoulder and quietly led me away from the group. “We need to talk,” she said. My heart started thumping, my cheeks turned hot, and a pit the size of a grapefruit grew instantly inside of my stomach. I knew what was coming and I didn’t want to hear it. I was no longer in the wedding party—not because the bride didn’t like me, but because, she claimed, her fiancé didn’t have as many friends as she and couldn’t find another body to make the party even-numbered. It was—in a word—awful.

Shopping for the bridal gown continued, but there was no speaking for the next 15 minutes. I cried for a moment, of course, but seeing as there was nothing I could do, I took the high road. I complimented the bride on her try-on choices, took photos of each bridal option, and made sure the smile on my face was the biggest in the room. The bride assured me I still had a role in the wedding—as a candle lighter or some such meaningless title—but, like my chance to be a bridesmaid, that role never came to fruition.

With a weekend of studying lost, I counted my losses and walked away, head high that I didn’t go ex-bridesmaid-zilla on some asses.