I can feel sweat beginning to form on satin that is jammed into my underarm. I’m pissed but this is inevitable. I’m a person who is prone to sweating and Bonnie had to pick motherfucking satin. To be fair, I’m not sure there’s a fabric that would escape my body temperature regulation, but this one is particularly punishing. It doesn’t just show sweat- it seems to encourage it. And of course, the dress is that green color that resembles emerald but is light enough to show the sweat stains as pine-colored marks here and there, and everywhere.
Thinking about it will surely cause the situation to worsen, and yet, there’s little else I can think about. That’s not true. There is a list of other issues I can obsess over, but those things include my aching feet (shit shoes), my solo status, Bonnie’s terrible choice in a new husband, and the college friends who I despise now and are sprinkled around the room like land mines.
God forbid Bonnie seat all those assholes at one table so I could skillfully avoid a single spot. Oh no. Better I should endlessly feel on edge wondering who I’m going to bump into. I’d really like to just sit at my table and sip shitty champagne, but this dress is tight and the underarm sweat feels embarrassing enough- I’m not certain I’m inclined to add mid-abdomen slashes to the mix.
For what feels like the fortieth time in ten minutes, I fuss with the small metallic clasp on my purse and make wider the stiff sides to reveal a half-eaten pack of Mentos (fruit flavored, obviously), a travel sized deodorant (thanks for nothing, asshole), a crumpled valet ticket, five or six bobby pins, a Chase credit card, twenty three dollars (one twenty, three singles), a pale pink lipgloss (the shade was approved by the bride and is mostly disliked by the entire bridal party, except for me), and my phone. I run my fingers down the side of my phone and then quickly pull my hand out and snap the bag shut, again.
I’m not texting him. Fuck it. I don’t care. I mean, I do care. I care a lot, as evidenced by the number of times I’ve performed this demented ritual, but I’m going to tell myself I don’t care until I believe it. Or until one of Jeff’s drunken frat boy bro friends comes over and hits on me. The thought makes hints of long-ago swallowed mimosa rise in the back of my throat, and still, I welcome it.
Distraction. I crave a distraction from this hellscape that is today.
Babbbbbbbeeee.
I look up and Bonnie’s flushed, shiny face comes into view. Her makeup is a shade darker than I would recommend for anyone of her pallor in October, and I can’t help but think again that the false eyelashes they meticulously applied this morning look like wayward spiders. Her lipstick is supposed be one of those wear it for the entire day with no issue situations, but her top lip is smeared slightly, evidencing recent kissing or perhaps, drinking, or likely, both.
If I dislike my dress, then I hate Bonnie’s. Hate.
Kim and I were having coffee two weeks ago at Nate’s, and I asked her if she’s ever hated a friend’s wedding gown.
What do you mean hate it? she asked.
Gosh, I thought, what do you think it means? But I silently acknowledged my rancid attitude before actually saying anything. I checked myself, if you will.
Okay, I said. Forget the whole wedding gown thing. Do you usually tell your friends if you dislike something they are trying on?
Yeah, Kim replies. I can’t actually forget the whole wedding gown thing. There seems to be a pretty wide berth between that sundress isn’t really your vibe and the dress you picked for one of the most important days of your life doesn’t really suit you.
Okay, but, I start to say.
Don’t even with that shit, Dev, she says. I know you are going to ask why it’s one of the most important days and I’m not doing this with you. I’m certain that your friend is on the flip side of the feminist movement-your words-and is likely incredibly stoked for her day. So yeah, one of the most important days of her life is vastly different than what she might wear to the beach club next week.
And I swear, she continues as my face twitches, if you say that she isn’t going to the beach club in October, I’m never talking to you again.
I brought my chai to my mouth to avoid confirmation of her egregious and unquestionably true assumption.
What’s wrong with it anyway? she asked.
As I gaze upon it now, I think everything. It’s too- everything. Too sparkly. Too white. Too low cut. Too long. Too fluffy. Too lacy. Too tight. Too everything. It’s fucking awful. It’s like David’s Bridal and Contempo Casuals had a baby and to celebrate, someone threw dime store glitter all over that baby. It’s so fucking cheesy that it makes my stomach ache looking at it.
But she looks so happy. Bonnie. She’s laughing and glowing. She’s so glowy that it’s enviable and I instantly feel like garbage thinking all my thoughts.
You know, she says, I am so fucking happy you are here. Like I can’t even tell you how happy I am. We weren’t sure you were going to come with everything going on. Like, I don’t even know how you’re out of bed right now, and here you are- and you look like okay and that’s so great. And Jeff and I are just so glad. Like so happy. We couldn’t be happier. We both decided that if you couldn’t come because you were just so sad about Kyle or like your life right now, we would understand. Like it would be okay.
As she unleashes this tirade, this waterfall of useless and offensive words, little pieces of spittle fly from her mouth into the space between us. With her standing this close, I notice the small flyaway hairs that are plastered from sweat around her face, and the white crust that I imagine to be dried hairspray. One lash has escaped the pack and is crookedly flapping, giving her the appearance of a broken doll. She smells profoundly like her signature wedding cocktail (some citrusy, sugar filled nightmare), Chanel No. 5, and sweat. It’s not until I feel a pinch that I realize her gel-manicured fingernails are pressing hard into the delicate skin of my upper arm.
Her eyes are actually filling with something that resembles tears right now and I know I should feel badly and instead, a fiery rage is starting to swirl around my mostly empty belly.
Devvie, she says, I know you feel defeated, but like I know you will find your prince charming too one day. Like I know it. No matter how old you are- you shouldn’t give up because I just know that it’s going to happen for you. Jeff thinks so too. We like know it. Kyle doesn’t know what he’s missing.
She smiles then. A genuine smile. A big, toothy, grin that’s meant to convey love and friendship and compassion. A beaming expression that is meant to tell me that I’ll be just fine.
Thanks, Bon, I say, as I peel her hand off my arm.
She turns to walk away, and I step forward, quickly, to not lose my opportunity.
Bon, I say.
She turns around, a hopeful, sweet look on her face.
I hate your fucking dress.
X
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