Fiercely (and a bit begrudgingly) Being a Bridesmaid: FIERCE ANTICIPATION [BEST OF FaN]

Originally published 05/27/11

This weekend is one of my best friend’s bachelorette party. Since it is a bicoastal wedding (the bride and groom-to-be live in San Francisco, while the family and bulk of the friends live in Massachusetts), we (and by we, I mean the bride and her east coast contingent of the wedding party) were forced to find a common ground on which we could all celebrate and squeal over her upcoming nuptials. So now, instead of a traditional one-night-stand get up, where we take over the town (or at least act like we’re taking over the town) and get annoyingly drunk and pretend we’re Beyonce on the dance floor… now, it’s an entire weekend of shenanigans. And at no small price either. The common ground chosen is Chicago. Last time I looked at a map – which is often, because I think maps are cool and I sometimes forget where a few of the ‘middle states’ are – Chicago was decidedly closer to Massachusetts than to California. So here I am, on Memorial Day weekend, flying (practically) across the country for 2.5 days of bachelorette revelry.

FIERCELY (BUT BEGRUDGINGLY) ANTICIPATING

GIRLFRIEND TIME

From my tone it may sound like I’m complaining. I am. But that’s what I do. In fact, I’m actually really excited to have some full-fledged girlfriend time – two of whom, including the bride, I’ve known since the awkward days of high school. And although I don’t particularly care for – or want to pay for – any one activity planned, according to the maid-of-honor’s itinerary, we’re taking an Architecture Boat Tour of the city, shopping on Michigan Avenue, and going out dancing – after of course getting a class in pole dancing (I knew I was missing something from my Beyonce routine), among other girlie festivities. I would have enjoyed a Cubs game, but apparently that option got voted out.

So why am I complaining? I guess it’s because I’m now $1,000 in the hole for a weekend I did not plan, I did not ask for, and did not get any say in. And I have to be happy about it because it’s a dear friend and I love her and I want her to have a good time. Honestly, if she had asked me for a grand I would have said no. I’m living check-to-check as it is. And I’m not even counting what it’s costing to go back east for the wedding itself in June. (Another $1,000 approximately, in case you were wondering.)

KINDA WANTED TO SEE

BRIDESMAIDS

As a dutiful bridesmaid-to-be, I thought that it would be appropriate for me to watch Bridesmaids as a primer to what my weekend may look like. It has been a while since my last bridal bonanza debauchery (insert tale that lives in family story infamy of my hooking up with groomsman from sister’s wedding in Miami five years ago – not a fine moment, I assure you). So on a rare Los Angeles gloomy afternoon this week, I went to a matinee showing (add another $9.50 for bachelorette weekend research).

It was horribly hilarious! It reminded me of all the awkwardness of coming together with a handful of girls you’ve never met before and having to immediately love them and make plans with them and fawn over one person of common interest with them.

I do sound bitter, don’t I? I am. Most likely because I’m single, utterly single and focused heartily on my career but still trying to pretend I need or want that guy to make it all complete. And after laughing my too-big-for-the-bridesmaids-dress-buns off during the movie, I found myself tearing up when the lead wacko-job bridesmaid ‘gets the guy’ at the end.

WOULDN’T BE A BRIDESMAID AGAIN IF YOU PAID ME

So what? Now I’m almost $2,000 in the hole, starving myself to look amazing at a wedding that no one’s even going to be paying attention to me at, traipsing off for a weekend in Chicago doing things I don’t want to be doing, buying my friend sexy lingerie that I should be buying for myself… big breath in… AND I need to find the guy of my dreams before the clock strikes midnight.

Fuck that. I want my refund.

featured image credit: kudumomo

toes image credit: Magalie L’Abbé