My lower lip trembled, and I blinked rapidly to keep from crying. “I—”
“Don’t get upset. I’m not trying to be mean. You just don’t do relationships, so it’s for the best if you aren’t sleeping with my husband’s friends. That’s all. Come on. Let’s get another drink.”
I let her pull me back toward the bar, but when she rejoined the rest of her friends, I pulled out my phone and pretended to answer a text.
“I need to go,” I told her.
“Because of what I said?”
“No,” I lied. “Amy is having an emergency about Tyler.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine, but—I need to go.”
“Okay,” Megan said, pulling me in for a hug that I didn’t return. “Call me tomorrow.”
I made it to the sidewalk before I began crying in earnest, then I clung to a lightpost for dear life while I tried to get myself under control enough to walk to the Metro. I swallowed a huge lump and began walking, just needing to get home.
Becca wasn’t at the apartment—it seemed like she never was anymore. I wished she were there. I needed someone to commiserate with, someone who understood.
I considered calling Alex back, but I didn’t want to interrupt Tim’s bachelor party any more than I already had, without even being there.
Megan’s comment wasn’t remotely fair—I had practically been a nun since her engagement party. A nun who cursed and drank, but men-wise, I had been so good. Yet enough of Megan’s comment rang true to scare me. I had found something good with Alex, even if it was platonic. And calling him now would lead to his coming over, which would lead to me sabotaging everything, just because Megan hurt my feelings.
I sank onto the couch, kicked off my shoes, and curled up in the fetal position.
I’d had relationships, of course. Just nothing lasting beyond six months. Not since David, when I was twenty-four. I realized with a shudder that that had somehow been eight years ago. I was Amy’s age when we were together.
I wouldn’t say David broke me, because that gave him too much credit, and the reality was that he had just never been that invested. Instead, I broke myself over him. He could waltz through my door at that exact moment, and I would, without question, tell him to get out. I didn’t want him anymore. I probably never actually wanted him. He was just so perfect on paper that I fell in love with the idea of him, not the reality. And he was such a coward in dumping me that he couldn’t admit that he just didn’t care. Instead it was all about how he needed to work on himself, but knew I was “the one” for him when he eventually got there. And idiot me believed him.
Three years later, Facebook told me he was married. To a blonde who resembled the rat from the Muppets and who commented on all of his posts about how funny he was. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t that funny. And he had two kids now and had lost most of his hair. Not that I still Facebook-stalked him. Well, not more than once or twice a year at most.
And since then, I had just been working under the assumption that anything that seemed too good to be true, well, was.
So was Megan wrong? No. Especially considering that I met David through her. He had been her friend in college. And when we broke up, she chose me without hesitation, ending that friendship. With eight years of distance from the situation, I realized that must have been harder than it looked to me at the time.
But Megan also didn’t realize that I now understood what I had done by building an effigy of David instead of looking at the real person. Or how much growth it took to sneak out of the hotel room after her engagement party instead of trying to form a meaningless relationship with Justin to validate my mistake—a relationship that I would then have to intentionally sabotage because Justin was the absolute worst.
Hell, a few months earlier, I would have definitely called Alex and asked him to come over, ostensibly to prove Megan wrong, but in reality to do exactly what she had accused me of.
Instead, I took a long shower, the water as hot as I could stand it, and got into bed. There I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing I had managed a different trajectory eight years earlier instead of taking David at his word. Because Megan was wrong about one thing: I didn’t sabotage relationships, I sabotaged myself. There was a big difference.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I woke up sad, but clear-headed, to an apology text from Alex.
I’m so, so sorry. It had come in around four in the morning.
I smiled grimly. At least he was sweet about it. Even if the fallout sucked. I sent a reply, figuring he had to still be asleep. So how was I last night? Since we’re apparently a thing now . . .
But he replied immediately. Amazing. How was I?
You got too drunk and passed out.
Ouch. I probably deserve that one.
It’s okay, we made up this morning.
Oh good. I’d hate to think we were fighting because I got too drunk.
Did you?
Nah, the Justin thing sobered me up real quick. You?
My sister called me having a meltdown right after I got off with you, so I bailed early, I lied. Best to keep the story consistent since Tim apparently told Megan everything.
Hope everything’s okay.
It is. I hesitated, then added more. Megan is mad at me though. Tim told her that we were sleeping together and she didn’t like that.
Did you tell her the truth?
Yeah. Sucked anyway.
I’m sorry, he said again. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Apology brunch today?
Absolutely nothing sounded better than a mimosa and some French toast with Alex. I wish. Today is salon day with the evil bridesmaids.
Gross. How long will all of that take?
Forever, apparently. Caryn said a keratin treatment takes three hours and then I can’t wash my hair for three days, and the eyelashes will take about an hour too. No idea if they can do the eyelashes while my hair is getting done.
And what’s the point of all this?
That was a really good question. It was the compromise I reached when I couldn’t go to Caryn’s bachelorette weekend extravaganza in New Orleans. And I was still meekly hiding the tan lines that I hadn’t completely fixed from Mexico, so a flat-out refusal to get my hair straightened and eyelashes extended wasn’t worth the drama, even if it would save me something like five hundred dollars.
On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to wear fake lashes in the remaining four weddings, and my hair wouldn’t frizz. There were worse beauty procedures that you could go through in DC in the summer.
Salvaging that friendship, I said eventually. And beauty of course. I sent the hair-flip emoji.
He replied with an eye-roll emoji. Try not to stab anyone with a pair of hair cutting scissors.
I grinned.
I wasn’t grinning anymore at the salon.
“Wait, what?” I asked Caryn.
She sighed. “I said it in the last newsletter email.”
“You did not tell me I had to dye my hair a different color.” The stylist had separated pieces of my hair for what I assumed was the keratin treatment, then left and come back with foils and dye. “Is that the keratin?” I asked suspiciously. She told me it was the highlights because they do color before keratin. When I said I wasn’t dyeing my hair, she said she was just doing what the bride told her. I jumped up and charged over to Caryn’s seat to straighten out the misunderstanding.
“It’s not a completely different color, just some balayage highlights to soften how dark your hair is.”
“I like how dark my hair is.”
Caryn threw her arms up in an exasperated gesture that I had come to know all too well. “You’re the only one with dark hair. I don’t want you to be the one who stands out the most in the pictures!”
“Caryn, you’re going to be wearing a wedding dress. No one is going to notice my hair color.”
“Then what’s the big deal if you change it a little?” she asked
, arms crossed. I looked behind her at the other bridesmaids, who were all there for touch-ups only. Caroline smirked.
“So basically, you want me in your wedding as long as I look exactly like them”—I gestured over her shoulder—“and nothing like me.”
“Fat chance of that happening.” Caroline snickered loudly enough that she meant to be heard, though she would deny it if I said anything. Dana looked at me sympathetically. Caryn didn’t reply.
I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. And for the approximately nine-hundredth time, I debated just telling her I was done and walking away. But if I did that, she would never forgive me.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “As long as it’s just highlights, not a full color change.”
“If you’d read the email . . .” Caryn said, but I walked away and went back to the stylist’s chair.
“Subtle,” I warned her. “Or I’m going on Yelp.”
By the time I left the salon five hours later, I didn’t recognize the reflection of the girl in the mirror behind the checkout desk. The highlights were subtle by the stylist’s definition, but still more blonde than my hair had ever been before. My hair was stick-straight, with strict instructions not to let it “bend” or get wet for seventy-two hours, and I looked like a Kewpie doll with the eyelashes. If it wouldn’t have ruined them, I would have been shedding some angry tears.
I went home and sat down in front of my laptop.
Bridezilla A just attacked me at a salon.
No, like actual assault.
As I sat docilely in her stylist’s chair (cheating on my own stylist, no less) like a lamb waiting for the slaughter—or in this case, the keratin treatment to destroy the natural beachy waves that are the envy of so many people—the stylist, at the bride’s request, began dyeing my dark hair blonde.
Naturally, I protested, only to be told that if I had read Bridezilla’s latest email missive about the wedding (forgive me, dear Bridezilla, but your “wedding newsletters” have gotten longer than a CVS receipt and I believe you’re up to number fifty-seven—no joke!), I would have known that my hair was about to change color. Because apparently not reading it is the same as giving consent? I didn’t even click an “I agree” box after not reading it, like I do with Apple notifications!
So let’s see, for this wedding alone, I have: lost seven pounds (not from actually trying, mind you, but from not being allowed to eat when I’m around the Bridezilla and her evil minions and the added stress of having to actually interact with these people), become a straight-haired blonde, and now have gigantic eyelashes obscuring the top part of my vision. Is it legal to drive with these on? I feel like giant space spiders are invading every time I blink.
If this is how you live your daily life, more power to you. But to force it on others for the sake of “not ruining the pictures” is beyond absurd. Hasn’t she heard of Photoshop?
I did, however, stand my ground on the Botox issue. So I’m ruining the pictures anyway by being the only bridesmaid whose face still moves as nature intended. In fact, to fix that faux pas, I may hire someone to Photoshop the wedding pictures—not to fix my face, but to fix the bridesmaids of Frankenstein so they look like actual people, not genetically modified Barbie dolls.
Mom-zilla’s daughter’s wedding is the weekend after this one. What’s going to happen when she sees my new look? Will Mom-zilla battle Bridezilla? And if so, can I sell tickets to recoup some of the fortune that I just paid to look like anyone but myself?
Feeling better, I hit “Publish.” Then I took a selfie and sent it to Megan. This happened.
She called me immediately. “That’s a filter, right?”
“Nope. Caryn dyed my hair.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“That’s so disrespectful.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you have three more weddings coming up. She’s not the only one who wants her bridesmaids to look a certain way.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I asked quietly.
“You’ve still got a month before mine so you have plenty of time to dye it back without totally frying your hair. But like, it would have been nice if she’d consulted with some of us. What’s your sister going to say?”
It took me a minute before I could respond. “I’m getting another call,” I said finally, copping out. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, love you. The eyelashes are great, by the way! Talk later.”
Did I have any normal friends left? Or did weddings turn everyone into unrecognizable zombies who fed on bridesmaids instead of brains?
I heard the front door to the apartment open and Becca called my name. “I’m just grabbing some clothes,” she called from the living room, the sound of her voice moving closer. She stopped in the doorway to my room. “Oh. You’re home. What did you do to your hair?” I looked up. “Are you wearing fake lashes?”
“Caryn had a bridesmaid salon day to get ready for the wedding.”
“Isn’t her wedding not for two weeks?”
“They chemically straightened my hair. I can’t wash it for three days, so it’ll be perfect by then. And the lashes last a month.”
“How much did all of that cost?”
I shook my head. “You don’t even want to know.”
“Wow,” she said, flopping down on my bed. “I know I haven’t seen you much lately, but I didn’t expect you to look like a completely different person.”
“Yeah. I didn’t either when I woke up this morning.” I looked her over. “You look good.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA.”
“Don’t be. Things going well?”
“Oh my God, Lily, you have no idea. Will is amazing.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“It still doesn’t feel real. Like, wasn’t I the yoga pants queen a couple months ago?”
“You certainly were.”
She reached across the divide and grabbed my hand. “It’ll happen for you too, you know. When you’re not expecting it.”
“Well, I’ve got a gross guy who I’ve already slept with telling everyone he’s going to hook up with me at the wedding—possibly right on the dance floor, I don’t have all the details—and a fake boyfriend defending my honor, so I think I’ve got enough on my plate without dating right now. But thanks.”
“Blog about it,” she said. “You always have the best stories.”
“Just did. You can read all about it.”
She grinned. “Can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My baby sister’s bachelorette party. Five words, endless degradation. When a thirty-two-year-old woman is forced to don a bedazzled “bridesmaid” shirt, candy necklace, and condom belt and walk around with penis straws, it certainly lacks the appeal that it may have for the twenty-four-year-old bride and her posse of barely legal friends.
Yet this is the situation I find myself forced into tonight. The bridesmaids and I have rented a hotel room, decorated it with a penis piñata (filled with condoms and penis-shaped lollipops, the former of which I was forced to buy in bulk), and set up the party with penis glasses and a penis-shaped cake. I have truly reached the point where if I see another penis, even a real one, I will run screaming. But isn’t that how most married women feel? Watch out, baby sis, you’ll be tired of them soon enough.
Whereas I, still woefully single, am probably pushing my impending spinsterhood further and further toward permanency by wearing what I am currently wearing. Not that I’m expecting to pick up guys at my sister’s bachelorette party, but as my grandmother pointed out, it would be nice to have a date to all of these weddings.* Even if that means I do, in fact, eventually have to look at another penis.
*Of course, thanks to “no ring, no bring,” I’m not allowed to bring dates to these weddings anyway. It’s barbaric, really, and lets all those groomsmen think they have a chance. So many more penises that I don’t want to see!
I would post a picture of this hideousness, but then my anonymity would be destroyed, as would my relationship with all five brides. So I’m sorry, dear readers, you’ll have to use your imaginations.
Meanwhile I will probably spend my evening using the endless supply of ponytail holders on my wrist to keep the twenty-four-year-olds’ hair out of their faces while they puke up the ridiculous amount of Fireball they have already started consuming.
Wish me luck! I’m going to need it . . .
I hit “Publish” and slid my phone into my back pocket. Then I sighed and looked in the hotel mirror again. I looked like a moron. Ashlee had joined me at the hotel to help set up and made the condom belts for the bridal party. She thought they were cute.
My phone vibrated. That was fast, I thought, assuming I had already gotten my first comment. But it was a text from Alex. Have fun tonight! with an eggplant emoji and a puking face. I laughed.
I’m wearing a bedazzled tank top and a belt made out of condoms, I replied. And I just hung a penis piñata from a hotel room ceiling.
Penis piñata? Pics or it didn’t happen!
I snapped a picture of myself in the mirror with the piñata visible in the background, miming shooting myself in the head with my free hand and hit “Send.” Things I never thought I’d say before this year: I’m sick of penis cake.
Alex replied with the crying-laughing emoji and That condom belt is H-O-T.
Shrieks of laughter started filtering through the closed hotel room door. Ugh, I wrote. Amy and her Brownie troop are here. Gotta go.
Have fun, he said again. I pocketed my phone and opened the door to let the girls in—Amy, three bridesmaids, and six other friends, two of whom I had known since they were babies, which was approximately five minutes ago. Four others had been her friends since high school. I had met them, but I had already been out of college by the time Amy started high school. One was Madison, freshly tanned from her “first honeymoon,” as they were calling their week at the resort in Mexico after the wedding. They would take their “real honeymoon” later in the summer in Greece. Apparently my brother’s job paid much better than mine. The other two girls I had seen at Amy’s shower that morning but couldn’t have greeted by name if my life depended on it.
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