My mouth dropped open. “What?” I asked quietly.
“You’ve still got a month before mine so you have plenty of time to dye it back without totally frying your hair. But like, it would have been nice if she’d consulted with some of us. What’s your sister going to say?”
It took me a minute before I could respond. “I’m getting another call,” I said finally, copping out. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, love you. The eyelashes are great, by the way! Talk later.”
Did I have any normal friends left? Or did weddings turn everyone into unrecognizable zombies who fed on bridesmaids instead of brains?
I heard the front door to the apartment open and Becca called my name. “I’m just grabbing some clothes,” she called from the living room, the sound of her voice moving closer. She stopped in the doorway to my room. “Oh. You’re home. What did you do to your hair?” I looked up. “Are you wearing fake lashes?”
“Caryn had a bridesmaid salon day to get ready for the wedding.”
“Isn’t her wedding not for two weeks?”
“They chemically straightened my hair. I can’t wash it for three days, so it’ll be perfect by then. And the lashes last a month.”
“How much did all of that cost?”
I shook my head. “You don’t even want to know.”
“Wow,” she said, flopping down on my bed. “I know I haven’t seen you much lately, but I didn’t expect you to look like a completely different person.”
“Yeah. I didn’t either when I woke up this morning.” I looked her over. “You look good.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA.”
“Don’t be. Things going well?”
“Oh my God, Lily, you have no idea. Will is amazing.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“It still doesn’t feel real. Like, wasn’t I the yoga pants queen a couple months ago?”
“You certainly were.”
She reached across the divide and grabbed my hand. “It’ll happen for you too, you know. When you’re not expecting it.”
“Well, I’ve got a gross guy who I’ve already slept with telling everyone he’s going to hook up with me at the wedding—possibly right on the dance floor, I don’t have all the details—and a fake boyfriend defending my honor, so I think I’ve got enough on my plate without dating right now. But thanks.”
“Blog about it,” she said. “You always have the best stories.”
“Just did. You can read all about it.”
She grinned. “Can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My baby sister’s bachelorette party. Five words, endless degradation. When a thirty-two-year-old woman is forced to don a bedazzled “bridesmaid” shirt, candy necklace, and condom belt and walk around with penis straws, it certainly lacks the appeal that it may have for the twenty-four-year-old bride and her posse of barely legal friends.
Yet this is the situation I find myself forced into tonight. The bridesmaids and I have rented a hotel room, decorated it with a penis pi?ata （filled with condoms and penis-shaped lollipops, the former of which I was forced to buy in bulk）， and set up the party with penis glasses and a penis-shaped cake. I have truly reached the point where if I see another penis, even a real one, I will run screaming. But isn’t that how most married women feel? Watch out, baby sis, you’ll be tired of them soon enough.
Whereas I, still woefully single, am probably pushing my impending spinsterhood further and further toward permanency by wearing what I am currently wearing. Not that I’m expecting to pick up guys at my sister’s bachelorette party, but as my grandmother pointed out, it would be nice to have a date to all of these weddings.* Even if that means I do, in fact, eventually have to look at another penis.
*Of course, thanks to “no ring, no bring,” I’m not allowed to bring dates to these weddings anyway. It’s barbaric, really, and lets all those groomsmen think they have a chance. So many more penises that I don’t want to see!
I would post a picture of this hideousness, but then my anonymity would be destroyed, as would my relationship with all five brides. So I’m sorry, dear readers, you’ll have to use your imaginations.
Meanwhile I will probably spend my evening using the endless supply of ponytail holders on my wrist to keep the twenty-four-year-olds’ hair out of their faces while they puke up the ridiculous amount of Fireball they have already started consuming.