Always a Bridesmaid...Sort of--Part 2
Well, folks, the saga continues. The wedding is a mere few days away, and the lemon yellow monstrosity looms large in my closet after the last fitting from hell. I’ve reflected on why this whole second wedding thing bothers me so much. At least Ann’s second wedding thing. Lots of people get married more than once. Lots of people choose to have elaborate ceremonies for each of their weddings. But how many of them choose to have their second mid-life wedding on the same day as their first wedding, invite the ex-spouse, and continue to insist upon the greatest spectacle in weddings this side of the Mississippi?
This is where my post gets a little sad. I had a heart-to-heart with Ann. Or more like a heart-to screeching shrew. Maybe it wasn’t my business, but, honestly, things seemed to be getting a little bit out of control, what with the doves, the choir, and the pictures that had to have the same exact amount of people in them as the ones taken the first time around (which is why, I suspect, I was offered a bridesmaid role) so they could reproduce the poses from her first wedding. I got the sneaking suspicion that Ann wanted to obliterate her first marriage by having the wedding of the century more than she cared about the impending marriage with Ed. I’m a romance author, so naturally, I’m worried about the second marriage, because, believe me, the first one was toast, and I'm kind of an advocate for the happy ending or at least the potential for one.
Maybe I should have waited until the fitting was over, but after the second time the seamstress huffed at me about my sagging breasts, I was not really in the mood to be pro-“let’s do this thing!” no matter how gleeful Ann looked as she texted someone while I shifted uncomfortably in my dress. I guess I was a little miffed she didn’t defend me, considering my breasts have always been a little on the saggy side and she knew it but let the seamstress continue to berate me and then kind of joined in…kiddingly, of course. So I just asked her a couple of reflective questions.
“Ann, why are you doing your wedding the way you’re doing it?” I asked, holding my breasts up and twisting as the seamstress poked me with pins. Again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you invite The Jerk? Why is it on the same day as your first wedding? Why are you using the same poses in the pictures as you did the first go around? Why don’t you just elope and be happy with Ed?”
Well, let me tell you. Not one of these questions went over very well with Ann. Her face turned red, and she screamed something about me being a bitch and huffed out of the dress shop. I guess that was my answer. The seamstress also took the opportunity to express her disdain for my abundance of belly fat and apparent bad manners by standing up and rolling her eyes.
“That wasn’t very nice. If you were a real friend, you’d be happy for her,” she commented, even though no one had asked her opinion and she didn't know Ann, Ed, or The Jerk. She even sniffed as she turned to get more pins.
“One more pin sticks me, and it’s your job,” I cautioned her, trying really hard to not totally explode. I mean, I could be writing, for Pete’s sake, instead of dealing with this drama.
She totally sneered at me, the very definition of smug. Amateur.
“Jessica loves me and my work,” she said, smiling a more than necessary bitchy smile. “She’ll never let me go.”
“No,” I countered, “but Adam will. He owns the majority share in this shop, and if I say you go, you will go, if you know what I mean. Got it, honey?”
Now, you must know that I’ve never even met the shop owner’s husband, let alone done anything with him that would encourage him to take my word over his wife’s; however, he is a notorious flirt and has a penchant for digging older chicks. Everyone in town, including the Seamstress Ratched poking me with pins, knows this. She stared at me, trying, apparently, to discern from my expression whether I was lying or not. She couldn’t, so she decided to err on the side of caution.
“Whatever,” she groused. I tore off the dress and handed the ball of lemon taffeta to her, because I figure that my bridesmaid gig is over at this point. I’m pretty sure that Ann will never talk to me again, and, right now, I don’t care. My friend is on a path to self-destruction destined to hurt those around her, and I can’t stop her. My only recourse is to go to Ed, who is so damn…nice.
But, alas, this is not to be. Ann called me the next day, all apologetic with all kinds of explanations. She insisted that she still wants me in the wedding and that she just was under a lot of bridezilla, er, bride, stress when she called me a bitch. She still didn’t give me a really good reason for why she seemed to be re-enacting her first wedding, but then Ed called later and we chatted and he seemed sincere in his belief that despite Ann’s desperate need to validate their love with a wedding that is basically an attempt to obliterate any and all memories of Ann’s special day with the The Jerk so many years ago, she loves him more than cooking. Given that Ann owns her own catering business, a business she started after her divorce from The Jerk, I’m letting myself buy into the faith he has in their love.
So, here we are. It’s just a few days until the wedding that won’t end all weddings but will certainly replace, at least for Ann, the day so long ago that she said “I do” to a guy who ended up doing her wrong. I have no idea if my dress fits, and I couldn’t care less, as long as Seamstress Ratched got all the pins out. I figure my bouquet will hide any issues with my droopy boobies, and this is really none of my business anyway, is it? All I have to do is get down aisle, pose for some pictures, and be happy for two people legalizing their love.
What could possibly go wrong?