For the Love of Friends(44)

Just like the minimizing bra, I thought, unkindly.

“Gotcha,” I said.

“That’s also so rude, telling you when the shower and bachelorette have to be. You’re in four other weddings. What if the dates don’t work for you?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. In my relief that none of the weddings conflicted, it hadn’t dawned on me that I had ten other parties in the weeks leading up to the weddings, which I would be expected to help plan. Some of those were going to overlap. It was just inevitable. “In that case, I doubt any of the other bridesmaids would miss me.”

“But like, ask, don’t tell. We don’t own you.”

“Megs, what am I doing in this wedding? Like seriously. I don’t want to put poison in my face.”

“I mean, she didn’t tell you that you had to. She was just saying to plan it out if you were going to.”

“Yeah, but am I going to look like an old crone next to everyone else in the pictures now?”

“No. You’re going to look like a normal human being who doesn’t get work done and is happy with how she looks. I’m jealous, honestly. I wish I didn’t care how old I looked.”

I didn’t respond. There was no way she meant that as an insult. Megan just sometimes had foot-in-mouth disease. And I didn’t think she realized how beaten down I still was about my looks by the attack of the horror-show mothers. “Thanks, I think,” I said eventually. Another phone rang in the background on Megan’s end.

“Ugh, I’ve got to go actually work. Don’t change a thing—you’re perfect and I love you!”

I slumped over my desk. Wahhhhh, I thought. I was so sick of weddings and brides and bridesmaids.

After all of the dresses had been found, my official bridesmaid duties had hit a bit of a lull, which I thought would be a well-deserved reprieve.

It wasn’t.

I may have gotten a two-month break from people harping on how I looked, but my friends had all suddenly disappeared.

Oh, they were still there, physically at least. But who were these people? I literally hadn’t had a single conversation with Megan, Caryn, or Sharon that didn’t immediately revert back to weddings. None of them ever had time to hang out, unless I wanted to be a third wheel with their fiancés, which I really didn’t, or unless I wanted to join them at bridal expos, which I was willing to do once, but had no desire to do repeatedly.

I was also getting the distinct feeling that every time I spoke, they were just waiting to transition the conversation back to their impending nuptials. There were suddenly too many “oh, speaking of [insert literally anything I said that had nothing to do with weddings here]” segues back into bridal talk for me to feel like they were actually listening.

Even Becca, who had always been ready to drop everything to grab a drink, get a pedicure, or binge-watch the latest show with me, had moved on. That date with Will had quickly been followed by second, third, and thirty-seventh dates. At the speed they were going, they were likely to have kids any day now.

Alex and I had been hanging out a decent amount, and the fact that none of my normal crew were available was good for my bank account. Caryn was always talking me into the clothes I didn’t need, Megan into the restaurants I couldn’t afford, and Becca into the carryout more nights than we should.

And it wasn’t like the blog was earning me any real money yet. Dress shopping may have been over, but Caryn’s ridiculous email missives (and the follow-ups from Caroline and her minions) had continued to provide excellent fodder. As had my mother and sister’s running discussion about every wedding decision, which they felt the inexplicable need to conduct through three-way calls and group chats with me. But growing an audience was a slow process, and I was only making a few dollars per post so far.

Then again, this latest email was so out of the realm of realistic that my readers might think I was just making things up. I wondered if Caryn had always been this nuts and I somehow just hadn’t seen it.

“Knock, knock,” Caryn said, pushing the door open.

My eyes went to the notifications on my computer screen. Eighteen replies. I blinked heavily. “Hey.”

“Everything okay? I didn’t hear from you.”

“Yeah, was just on a phone call.” Unlike the rest of your bridesmaids, I work, I wanted to tell her. A thought dawned on me. “Are you still going to work after you get married?”

She looked taken aback. “I—well—at first, yes.”

“At first?”

“Well, not when I have kids, of course.”

My mother worked up until last year, when the last of her children finished college and she finally retired. My father would happily work until he was a hundred and twenty, if he lived that long, both because he loved his job and because he wouldn’t last long without an excuse to leave the house. So the idea of becoming a stay-at-home mom, especially one who would probably also have a nanny, was foreign to me.

“Are you planning on kids soon?”

“Well not immediately. But probably in a year or so. I’m not getting any younger and egg quality deteriorates after thirty-five.”

Was I a terrible person for debating how worthwhile it was to stay in her wedding? When we would only work together for another year or two at most? And apparently have nothing in common by then?