Three days prior to the fancy DC wedding – a huge black-tie affair on the night before New Year’s Eve – I was shopping for a wedding gift with Michelle, a high school friend (and fellow bridesmaid). I had organized a bridesmaids’ brunch for the following morning, and was feeling more than edgy about Allie’s approaching Big Day. My fear of public speaking had resurfaced; I broke into a sweat when I thought about the Maid of Honor toast I would have to make. The whole affair was so posh, so foreign, so utterly beyond my comfort zone.
I worried about being the fattest girl in the wedding (her other bridesmaids were uber-tan and toned). I worried about the speech I would have to make before hundreds of guests. I worried about whether I would ever fall in love again.
So when Allie called around six to ask whether Michelle and I could meet her for a last-minute dinner with the rest of the wedding party, I rolled my eyes. I wanted to buy her gift and go to bed. The entire following day—indeed, the entire upcoming weekend—would be devoted to Allie’s wedding.
“Um, would you mind if I skipped dinner?” I chirped. “I have a ton of stuff to do before brunch tomorrow, and I don’t have much money to drop right now…” My voice trailed off. Allie was not known for diplomacy.
“If money is the issue, I’ll pay for you,” she hissed.
“Money isn’t ‘the issue,’” I said. “Maybe, if you’d given me advance notice...”
Silent seething, then: “I shouldn’t have to beg you to come. You’re my maid of honor,” she pleaded, voice rising. “Though you haven’t done sh*t for me so far.”
I was swallowed by sudden rage. Who was this diva demanding that I shell out my precious time and money on another stupid dinner? “It’s not all about you, Allie!” I screamed. “I have a life, you know, even though you barely ask me about it! F**k you!”