by Susan Wiggs
“I know!” I whined. “So they can handle the rejection better! They know it’s not purrrrsonal!”
As soon as I said it I could hear how wrong it sounded.
But, again, instead of doing the right thing and taking them out for mani-pedis before asking them on bended knee to be my bridesmaids, I waited until we were tipsy one night at our local dive bar and slurred, “Hey, so, I think I probably want you guys to be my bridesmaids. But if I end up feeling like I have to ask someone else, I know you won’t mind stepping down, you know? Because I can be totally honest with you. You know? I love you guys.”
Sometime after that I got up on a pool table and did an interpretive dance to “Cold as Ice” by Foreigner.
And you know what sucks? I never retracted that clause about asking them to step down if I ended up feeling obligated to ask someone else. At the time, I drunkenly thought I was just being “real” with them. You know, like when a reality show contestant says, “I’m not fake. I’m keepin’ it real.”
Like true friends, they were both overjoyed and excited to be bridesmaids, and to this day neither of them has ever busted my chops for being the worst bridesmaid-asker in the history of the world.
I deserve to have my chops busted, though, don’t I?
The final person I asked to be my bridesmaid was Aubrey, a girl I hated in college.
Let’s pause for a second so I can tell you how most of my female relationships have evolved: first, I meet a new girl. Immediately, I draw comparisons and find something to envy about her. In Aubrey’s case, it was her fierce model-like good looks and infuriatingly petite body. Quickly, that envy turns to hatred, so I go around talking trash about the girl until someone calls me on it and then I’m forced to stew in my own outrage, knowing deep down I’m a jealous hag and nobody feels sorry for me.
The good news is that this unfortunate tendency has forced me to develop some world-class amends-making skills.
Eventually, I came to see that I needed to get over myself and acknowledge Aubrey’s fabulosity—both as a stunningly beautiful girl and as a devoted friend.
When Dave and I got engaged, she was one of the first to congratulate me and immediately sent me a card she had designed and printed with her 150-year-old letterpress machine.
Okay, let me just say that again. She designed and printed a card for me on her 150-year-old letterpress machine. She’s such a classy broad.
Now, after screwing up the previous bridesmaid invitations, I finally got it right: I hand-wrote a letter to Aubrey telling her how much she meant to me and how thankful I was to have her in my life. I packaged the letter with her size-less-than-0-but-I-love-her-anyway bridesmaid dress and shipped it in a flat box on which I had written REQUIRED WEDDING ATTIRE ENCLOSED. It was a lovely gift, if I do say so myself, and I know that she’ll keep the letter forever.
She probably would have loved the package I sent even more if I had not put it in the mail exactly three weeks before the wedding.
That’s right, folks. Three weeks.
See, Dave and I were engaged for sixteen months, and a lot can change in that amount of time. As the wedding drew closer, Aubrey became one of my most important supporters and I slowly began to see how much I needed her in the wedding party. She had become more than a friend to me; she was a sister.
But then I hemmed and hawed for, like, two months.
Who does that? God, I suck.
Lucky for me, she took my ineptitude like a champ and never let on that I had forced her to jump through all the bridesmaid hoops (arranging transportation, getting dress alterations, etc.) in a fraction of the normal amount of time.
Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I wish I could go back and send cool little packages to my girls or take each one out to lunch and pour mimosas down their throats. You know what, I might just do that right now.
But, Dear Readers, despite my terrible maid-asking skills, I’m going to go ahead and toot my own horn about how I treated my maids once they were asked. Let’s call a spade a spade: I was a pretty great bride, as far as my girls were concerned. I tried my damnedest to remember that they were cherished friends throughout the whole process, and they paid me back by keeping the champagne flowing, fixing my updo when it began to droop, enthusiastically clawing for the bouquet when I threw it and staying on the dance floor until their feet bled. And—the most important test of all—they’re still my friends today. So, given what an awesome bridesmaid experience I had, here are my thoughts on Zen and the art of bridesmaid wrangling:
A bridesmaid is not, as the title implies, there to serve you—she (or he) is your support. Historically, bridesmaids and groomsmen dressed alike and stood next to the couple as they said their vows to confuse evil spirits who would curse the marriage. They were willing to tackle malevolent demons for their friends’ happiness. Today, many brides seem to see their maids as dress-steaming, Band-Aid–fetching slaves. But think about it: your maids are your friends. They’ve watched you fill a toilet with upchucked peach mojito, and they’ve been on boob-watch for you when you wear a sparkly, nipple-skimming top to dinner. They will answer the phone at 3:15 in the morning when you’ve thrown your engagement ring down the stairwell and are seriously considering entering a nunnery, and the next morning they’ll bring you a soy chai latte (your favorite), look you right in the puffy, red eyes, and tell you you’re pretty. They’ve been your cheerleaders, your shoulders to cry on and your trusted sisters. Be grateful to have your peeps up there with you to witness your union with your soul mate. And, you know, attempt to show that gratitude.
By asking your wedding party to stand with you, you’re honoring the friendship you have with each of them. Keep that in mind when you’re choosing their outfits and outlining their duties. I found cute dresses for my maids at Target, and at $34 a pop, I was able to gift them to my girls—and when we took them to the seamstress for alterations, she thought they were Vera Wang gowns. Booya! And on my wedding day, I made sure to take time with each of my bridesmaids to let her know how much it meant to me to have her there.
When Aubrey and Lindsey left the cocktail hour to help me remove my veil, I told them how much I appreciated it. When Lucy hugged me goodbye for the night, I let her know that her calming presence had gotten me through the more stressful parts of the day. When Melissa showed up for portraits, having executed her own runway-worthy hair, makeup and styling, I made sure to tell her how gorgeous she looked. When Joelle cried all the way through the ceremony, the signing of the marriage certificate and her toast to me, I cried with her and told her how much I loved her. And when Molly used her arms as a forklift to help me lower my bride-ass onto the toilet without soaking my dress, I thanked her before I emptied my bladder of four glasses’ worth of champagne. I’m proud I remembered to be grateful.
So here you sit, flush with engagement bliss, ready to gather your women around you and assign each of them a special role. Just remember that they already know how much you love them, and they love you, too—and they’re not going to hate you if you take your time as you decide what parts they will play in your wedding. They’ll be patient with you, just as you would with them. And, uh, try not to ask them via text message, or two weeks before the wedding, or in the midst of a drunken rampage. Shudder.
SAYING ADIEU TO YOUR SINGLEHOOD
Most brides and grooms still practice the tradition of a bachelor and bachelorette party. If you’re anything like me, you have spent many a happy hour with girlfriends fretting over what sorts of trouble your betrothed’s stupid college buddies are going to get him into. Maybe you’ve called his big brother who’s in med school to make sure he knows how to detect and diagnose the signs of alcohol poisoning. Or maybe you’ve disastrously attempted to issue an ultimatum: “Go to a strip club and you’ll need to find yourself a new fiancée.” Perhaps you’ve stood over him and dictated an email to his bachelor party attendees informing them that since he’s going to be a lawyer when he grows up, he won’t be partaking in consum
ption of any illegal substances OR streetwalkers. Or possibly you designed one T-shirt for every day of his bachelor party, each with a different menacing photo of your face and a caption saying some version of, “My future wife will kill you if you touch me.”
…Oh. Was that just me? Whoops. To put it bluntly, I had my grundies in a twist long before Dave started planning his bachelor party. Looking back, I had nothing to worry about, but for the record, I’m still glad I printed those T-shirts for him. They were hilarious. I sneaked them into his suitcase the night before he left and made his best friend reveal them to him once they got to the hotel.
I also lucked out, though. Instead of a typical trip to the Vegas strip, Dave wanted to go to Alaska. During the summer solstice. To run a marathon.
Yep. And eighteen of his friends agreed to come with him. They also agreed to wear costumes—Daisy Dukes and suspenders, head-to-toe neon spandex, a clown costume…
Yet I still worried. Would they find some hairy-armed, gun-slinging moose huntress to do a pole dance for him? Would the guys force Dave to drink bourbon through a beer bong and then throw him down the side of a glacier?
It’s really hard to get out of that paranoid mindset, even if you know and love your fiancé’s friends almost as much as he does. Unfortunately, you might just have to spend the weekend feeling uneasy. But here are a couple of things you can do to ease the tension:
Have an open discussion before he goes about what sort of communication you want to have during the party. I asked Dave not to call me during the entire weekend because I knew I would be waiting by my phone, counting the seconds until I heard from him again.
Plan something relaxing and fun with a friend or two during the party. I specifically didn’t want to have our bachelor/ette parties at the same time because I didn’t want either of us to be distracted by worry for one another. Still, treat yourself.
Remember that the whole reason he’s having a bachelor party is that he asked you to marry him—he’ll be thinking about you the whole time. Well, okay, a good chunk of the time.
If you have a close, trusted male friend on the trip, ask him to text you periodically to tell you everything’s okay. Don’t ask for details, just reassurance every so often.
And don’t forget—you get to have your own bachelorette party, as well. For my party, fifteen girls came to a beach house in San Diego. It was just what I wanted: quality time with my girls, sans distractions. We spent each day hanging out and talking, and each night we made girly drinks, had a living room dance party, went out to a couple of bars and reflected—at the ripe old age of twenty-four—on our lost yet unlamented youth.
Dave wasn’t nearly as worried about me as I was about him, but prior to my departure, he told me he wanted me to call him every night when I got home to tell him I was safe and sound.
Whatever you do for your bachelor and bachelorette parties, just make sure you have fun. Take the opportunity to reconnect with old friends, to introduce past VIPs to present VIPs in your life. And, yeah, you should probably wear a tiara.
SUSAN
As a romance writer, I believe in fairy tales. In particular, I believe in fairy godmothers. Elizabeth, an only child, has many of them. Through the years, my friends and those she made on her own have given her many spiritual gifts. Like the gorgeous, pastel-colored fairies in Sleeping Beauty, they gathered around, showering her with the gifts of kindness, empathy, wisdom, beauty…probably fashion sense from my friend, Carol.
Wedding time is a time to let the fairy godmothers back in. Invite the whole horde of them. You can never have enough well-wishers. Trust me on this. The bride has her chosen entourage—the wedding party. As the mother of the bride, you get to have one, too. Your girlfriends know how fun this is for you. Let them cheer you on! I spread the news like a computer virus, emailing photos and badly punctuated squeals around the globe. There’s something about the announcement of a wedding that brings people’s good cheer to the fore. I learned things about my friends’ weddings I never knew before—the hilarity, the heartache, the surprises and the bombshells.
It’s also a time to move closer to your daughter’s friends. My own wedding was so tiny, I had only the maid of honor—my sister. Elizabeth kept adding beloved friend after beloved friend until the bridal party resembled a small army. I kept my mouth shut, however, because the nieces were in the picture, so I got my way. (Surprise.)
Now it was time to get to know the bride’s friends. There was Molly, who is sweeter than your favourite Hallmark commercial. Lindsey and Aubrey, the fashionistas with hearts of pure gold. Funny, genuine Lucy…and Melissa, who once lobbied successfully to get me to name a character after her in one of my books.
These are the people who are going to be in your daughter’s future. Cultivate them as friends, as people who will be there for her, through thick and thin. They’re a lot like your own closest girlfriends—lovely, compassionate and always ready to listen to your troubles and triumphs.
There’s something else you need to remember from Sleeping Beauty, though. That final pesky fairy, the one who put a curse on the poor kid and left in a whirlwind of fury, might be lurking in the wings. Unfortunately, you run into people like this, people who point out the percentage of marriages that fail, who warn you that planning a wedding will consume a year of your life and send you plummeting into debt—the doubting Thomasinas of the world. I refer to this sort of person as the turd in the punch bowl. (Again, sorry about that visual.) Tell yourself such people are put in the world to test your character—your reserves of patience, the depth of your wellspring of human kindness. And if that doesn’t help, well…flush.
You needn’t worry, though. A wedding tends to inspire people to be their happiest, most hopeful and kindest. Believe it, and it will be true.
* * *
CHEAT SHEET
TOO BUSY WARRING WITH YOUR MOTHER OVER
WHETHER YOU SHOULD HAVE COUSIN BERTHA IN YOUR WEDDING PARTY? HERE’S YOUR CHEAT SHEET:
If you remember one thing after you put this book down, remember this: when people ask you who your bridesmaids are going to be—and they will ask you—smile and say you haven’t thought that far ahead yet until you’ve made a final decision on your bridal party.
Find a gracious and special way of asking your bridesmaids (or bridesmen) to stand up there with you—even if it’s just a nice card or a phone call on a Sunday morning.
Here’s how guys ask: “Yo, you wanna be in my wedding?” “Sure, dude.” “Cool. I’ll look up the date and let you know.…” That’s not going to work for you.
If you’re freaking out about who to include in your list of bridesmaids, don’t split hairs over the number. Looking back on my wedding day, having a few more girls there did not affect my experience of the day—but regret from not having asked a dear friend would have lingered like the stench of cheap perfume.
* * *
7
ENTOURAGE
…all the people you need to be the best bride you can be. Wedding planners, photographers, videographers, hairstylists
Our wedding planners: how we found them, how we couldn’t live without them.
ELIZABETH
The average couple will spend 250 hours planning a wedding. Don’t you wish I hadn’t told you that? If it makes you want to race straight to Reno, hang in there. Help is on the way.
Four months after we were engaged, Dave and I quit our jobs, pulled up stakes and moved to Chicago so that we could start grad school. I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, how amazing that you planned your whole wedding in the four months after Dave proposed to you!” Well, lemme get right to bursting your bubble: my wedding was barely a glimmer in my eye by the time I hopped onto the Amtrak Empire Builder (we rode the train to our new city because my fear of flying is such that horse tranquilizers barely take the edge off ). In fact, here’s the list of what we had accomplished as we pulled out of Union Station in Seattle:
Venue reserved
; Menu theme chosen (although not yet battled-out with my mother)
Dress purchased
…um, that’s it.
See? If I had attempted to plan the rest of the wedding by myself, from fifteen hundred miles away, my head would have exploded. Dave and I quickly realized the vital importance of getting some foot soldiers on the ground, if you will, in Seattle. I wasn’t about to lean on my local bridesmaids (I hadn’t even officially asked them yet), and asking my mother was out of the question unless we were prepared to relinquish every last scrap of control we had over the wedding.
Yes, despite my pathological need to micromanage our Big Day (the apple doesn’t fall far from the overbearing tree in the Wiggs household), I admitted that I was powerless over long-distance wedding planning and that my life had become unmanageable. I needed professional help.
Enter Good Taste Events. Even their company name inspired visions of an elegant, classic bride, sparkling from head to toe with happiness and grace. The home page of their website showed an unsteady-looking young man giving a toast to a newly married couple, with the caption, “Your wedding will be in good taste. The best man will be cut off early.” With images of Dave’s drunken cross-country team and their No-Shirts-Jägermeister-Circle-of-Death game flitting through my head, I called Good Taste and scheduled a meeting.
I mentioned “foot soldiers” a minute ago, but what we ended up finding was the Alexander the Great of wedding planners. Jody and her team deftly wrangled all our crazy ideas (“Breakfast for dinner? No problem. How do you feel about cardamom-scented French toast?”), consolidated eighteen versions of the guest list (“We noticed there are twelve different Susans invited. Do you want us to color-code them so you don’t get them confused?”) and dealt with our budding dramas (“The twins get into fistfights when they drink Pinot Grigio? We’ll alert the waitstaff.”)