They say nine times a bridesmaid…hmm. Well, I guess they don’t really say anything about that. Probably because there are only a very, very select few women who are crazy enough to agree to be in nine weddings.
Readers, meet Crazy.
(Although, I guess it could be nine times a bridesmaid, three times never a bride…or never a bride times three…or a bride cubed…I don’t know, math was never my strong suit).
Yes, today I will be walking down an aisle in an unnaturally poufy dress that I can’t breathe in because I refuse to accept I am no longer a size six for the ninth time (which actually would have been 11 but I had to turn two down due to one overlapping another wedding and the fact that the other was in Montana, where, like, legit wild animals live).
To be honest, I’m not quite sure how it got to this point. It’s not like I set out to be in nine weddings. Most little girls don’t grow up dreaming about the days they prevent a hyperventilating friend and/or family member from murdering their mother-in-law and then spend the majority of the reception lifting up 40 pounds of tulle so the bride can pee.
And it’s not even as though I’m that popular or even that good of a friend. It just seemed to happen that women in my life got married right at the moment we were at the height of our friendship. Or, in my friend Ben’s case, I was simply the token chick groomsman because I bested three out of five groomsmen in a burping contest.
So why do I do it? Well, for one, the open bar. That may not seem like good fiscal sense, considering the cost of the dress, shoes, airfare, gifts and brown paper bags (bought in bulk for all the bride’s freak out needs) far outweigh what you save by not paying for your hooch for an evening. But hey, free beer is still free beer.
Two, I happen to look really, really good in colors not found in nature, such as teal and neon electric pink.
And three, and possibly most importantly, I LOVE acting superior and sneering my nose down at all the “regular” wedding guests who were not important enough to be asked to button up 417 individual buttons on the back of the bride’s dress.
But Misty’s wedding today should be the last one. All my good friends and cousins are now hitched and any new friends I make are instantly told “Hi, I’m Aprill. Please don’t ever ask me to be in your wedding. What’s your name?”
With this being the last wedding, however, it is a bittersweet moment for me. On one hand, I think I’ll miss all the pomp and circumstance and excitement that surrounds these weddings.
On the other, I will never, ever have to help a fully functioning adult pee ever again.
That is, of course, until 50 percent of these couples start divorcing and remarrying.