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.