Metro Pulse/Yikes!/I Don't

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Please don't ask me to be your bridesmaid anymore

by Angie Vicars

Women. I should know better by now than to befriend them. Sooner or later, no matter how casual I try to keep things, they always start to get serious on me. I tell them I'm not the one they want. I'm a free spirit, I say. That kind of responsibility would weigh me down. But they don't care that I'm not ideal. Their sights are set on commitment, the clock is ticking, and when they pop the question it really comes as no surprise. "Angie, will you be in my wedding?"

"Look, I like you and all. I really do. But I just don't know if I feel that way about you." That's what I should say the next time it happens. But I'm just a girl who can't say no.

Which is why I told my friend Dixie I would do her the honor. Although, with my thirty-something years of bridesmaid experience, I already knew what was going to happen. I'd suck at doing what was expected of me. She'd feel let down. I'd feel guilty. And she'd eventually decide we were better off as friends.

Of course, that never happens until after the ceremony. My freaking out, however, started with the fitting. To say that the taffeta two-piece enveloped me really doesn't do it the justice it deserves. To say that my periwinkle, non-petite skirt flowed so far onto the floor behind me that it created a train to rival the bride's, that would paint you a more colorful picture. To say that my sleeveless top sagged so far down my shoulders that it looked like a garter with the elastic nearly gone, that would truly be more accurate. And to say that I was surrounded by young brides to be, whose estrogen levels were off of the charts, that would give you a more distinctive description of the day I dropped in at David's Bridal "I need a Midol" Shop.

In the midst of my trauma, the employee who was helping me try to stay dressed, appeared with a sandal that had a heel so high it literally sent me over the edge. Even though she offered me a free dye job, I turned her down flat, which you may have seen coming. But it made beating a path to the front counter, to place my order, so much easier.

Let me assure you, I'm not cut out to be your bridesmaid. When it leads me to question my identity to the point that I barely recognize my own reflection, I think it's time to leave you at the altar. But no hard feelings, OK? This is all about me.

When I arrived for alterations after my initial fitting, a very helpful woman pinned me so thoroughly inside of my ensemble, I looked like I was undergoing acupuncture. While I held my breath for a dangerously long stretch, she took my skirt over and up and by the time she was through with it, my cheap shoes from Payless peeked under the hem. Unfortunately, all of her needles and all of her pins couldn't make the top look like I would fit in. "Are you going to put boobs in that, dear?" she asked matter-of-factly as she scrutinized my appearance in the mirror before us.

"You mean, besides the ones I already have in here?" But we both knew that my comeback was lacking. My endowments fell far short of filling out my attire.

So again, let me assure you that I don't want to be your bridesmaid. I'm opposed to strapping on extra body parts when they have nothing to do with my own enjoyment.

Which brings me to the night before, the night before the wedding. When I asked Dixie for directions to the rehearsal dinner, there was just one thing I'd managed to commit to memory. The wedding was in Chattanooga. The dinner, however, was at a restaurant in Nashville, and it turns out that the ceremony followed suit.

Look, I'm asking you nicely. Just how much is too much for you to put me through? Not only am I not comfortable in these surroundings. I actually don't fit in what you've decided I should wear. Plus, I really don't know where you're going with this. I thought I did. But I was way off base. You're getting so serious. Isn't it time to admit that this just isn't working out? We could save ourselves a lot of heartache this way.

Of course, I'd be a fool to turn down a free meal. So what if I made it to the restaurant at the wrong hour? Doesn't it count that I showed up, eventually, and accidentally ordered so much sushi on Dixie's mother-in-law's tab that the wait staff thought I was a sumo wrestler? Until they came out and got a look at me, that is.

I still don't want to be your bridesmaid, though. I realize at this point that you don't care what I want. But I feel almost like I've eaten something that isn't agreeing with me. You know the feeling I'm talking about. The one right before you make a run for it.

Oh crap, I forgot to get a gift. But I pretended that I arrived empty-handed on purpose. I told Dixie I was waiting to find out if she really wanted something that she hadn't received. Of course, it was the day of the wedding by this time and for some strange reason she seemed preoccupied. While she visited the Smoky Mountains for her honeymoon, I visited target.com in search of her registry. And someone, whose face I never even saw, sent her a muffin pan and a (fill-in-the-blank other bake ware item), that I'm sure she liked, in beautiful wrapping with a thoughtful enclosure.

The thing to do now is just to let me off the hook. I'll give back the bouquet. Mark my name out of the program. I tried to be what you wanted. Truly, I did. But I'm not the bridesmaid you always dreamed of. I don't even know the groom's last name. I don't. I promise you with all of my heart.