Always A Bridesmaid

This *might* be funny now.

I have been in about 15 weddings, twice as a flower girl, twelve times as a bridesmaid and once as maid of honor.  I believe that exactly two of those weddings ended in divorce, one in death, so I think my track record is pretty decent.  The last wedding I was in was in May of 2009.  The bride, my close friend Monisha, allowed us to choose our own dresses, so I went with a black Betsey Johnson number, with studded black Betsey Johnson shoes.  I could wear it again!  Except I didn't, because the mere sight of that dress summons memories of one of the saddest days of my life.

Very few people have ever heard this story.  I simply couldn't repeat it without falling apart.  I think someone once anonymously commented on here, asking for my take on the issue.  I promised that one day I would elaborate when I could find the slightest humorous slant.  That time is sort of now.

It was Memorial Day weekend and I was in Cincinnati, staying with my little sister, who was pregnant with her second daughter, (my Goddaughter!!!!) Myla.  My friends Dylan and Monisha asked me to be in their wedding that weekend.  I had just put on my bridesmaid's dress, makeup and the finishing touches on my hair when I received a call from my hair stylist in Nashville.

"Blue Velvet, are you sittin' down," she was ominous, "'cause you in danger, girl."  Okay, she didn't really say that, but it was something very similar.

"Oh shit!  Do I have split ends or something?  This is serious," I thought.

I still wake up in cold sweats from what I heard next.

She went on to say that a client, who is a caterer, came into her salon and provided details of a double wedding that took place the night prior.  That wedding.  Jack's wedding. She needn't continue, I predicted what words would roll off her tongue seconds later.  I was literally trembling, to the extent I could hardly hold the phone to my ear.  I stuttered the only words that came to mind, "I, I, I, Imma, Imma wwwwearing a   brbridesmaid's   dress," and I closed the phone shut.

I was in the house alone.  My sister was grocery shopping, and my brother-in-law and their daughter were outside fraternizing with their neighbor, Scotty, (who is very good people).  I was breathless and my mouth was watering, preparing my body to expel what little food it contained.  I dashed to the nearest exit, which was the patio door that led to the back yard, hand over mouth.  I made it to my brother-in-law's impressive and very new hydroponic garden and violently vomited, wailed, dry heaved, wailed some more, until I laid trembling in the grass in the midst of a full blown panic attack.  All while wearing that fucking bridesmaid's dress.

I soon discovered that I had an audience, for in my peripheral I could see my brother-in-law, niece and Scotty, staring silently, completely stunned.  They were coming back to check out the new garden.  The one that was completely soiled with my innards.  The one that couldn't be reached without addressing the woman who was wearing a fancy dress and shoes, rolling around in grass, losing her fucking world at 11am in suburban Cincinnati.  "Um, well, maybe we should come back later." I heard my brother-in-law say before leaving the scene.

Shortly thereafter, my sister came home.  She was forewarned prior to entering the house that she might encounter a crazy woman.  "BV, what the hell is going on?!"  I told her, between gasps.  Her face fell and I could see tears welling up in her eyes.  I was astonished to know that she had tear ducts.  Calmly she responded, "That motherfucker," while wiping the one tear that trickled down her cheek.  (Note:  I honestly believe that she shed *a* tear because she knew she'd have to hear about this fiasco on a regular basis for the next five years or so.)

Once I stabilized, I recalled the foremost reason I was in Cincinnati in the first place:  Dylan and Monisha's wedding.  A fucking wedding was the most inappropriate place for a person in my situation, but there was no possible way that I could skip it.  I straightened the dress, I reapplied my makeup, did what I could with my hair, and decided to not speak a word of what I heard to anyone who didn't already know.  I love Dylan and Monisha and something like this would certainly cast a dark cloud over and possibly even ruin their wedding day. 

The day was long.  There was the wedding, followed by a Kosher reception, then another reception for friends.  I didn't eat.  I certainly did not drink.  I put on a half-assed act that everything was just fine in my world.  I stayed close to Robert, Dylan's friend from high school, because he is probably the funniest person I've ever met in my life and I knew that he would distract me from the horrors in my head.  Around midnight, a mutual friend of Jack and mine, who I avoided most of the night for obvious reasons, approached me.  We made small talk.  Then he says, "Hey, I heard that Jack is getting married to an ugly girl."  That was my cue to exit....fast.

Of course, by Monday, the news was all over the interwebs.  Not only did I feel like a loser who wasted her entire 20s, and was overwhelmed with heartache, but Jack rubbed it in my humiliated face by issuing a fucking press release. I was flooded with calls, none of which I took.  I made a status update on my FB page that said something like, "Yes, I know and I don't want to talk about it," which really didn't deter people much from trying to force a discussion.  A few people showed up at my house, only to be turned away.  I overheard someone say, with regard to the situation, "I wouldn't wish what he did to her on my worst enemy."  I don't think I ever told Dylan and Monisha how agonizing their wedding was for me.  I suppose they know now.

The most bizarre aspect of the whole affair was that there were some people who--naturally-- thought that Jack and I were married.  I received congratulatory cards, emails and presents for weeks and months.  I graciously thanked them, then informed each well wisher that, yes, Jack was married...just not to me.