As a young girl growing up in the sticks, spending my time watching cartoon reruns of Hercules and pretending I was Helena, I had several romantic fantasies. Some of those fantasies vanished into the night air with the steady hiss of reality escaping my balloon of romantic delusions. A small number of those fantasies actually became reality.
I met and married my handsome, if not somewhat dunderheaded, Prince Charming. I had a beautiful, handcrafted, off-white wedding gown. (Let's ignore the fact that it was an empire-waisted gown, the likes of which my mother had to let the sides out the day before the wedding due to my ever-expanding belly.)
I had a beautiful wedding, with my eight-month old daughter as my flower girl. She sat in a wagon and gummed the plastic flowers to death. (She'd have given Wonderbaby
a run for her money in the market of bald-headed, cute baby girls who sport stylish hats.)
I had three lovely attendants, who I was kind to, and allowed them to pick the style and colour of their dresses. (Admittedly, my maid-of-honour was nine months preggers and could chew the tops off of pop bottles by then, so cranky was she. I was a tad frightened of her.) They chose a lovely dusky blue. Not the colour I would have chose, but it looked smart on all three ladies.
But I digress. Back to my romantic dreams. One of those would be to see my daughter walk down the aisle in a sea of white gauze and be whisked off into the sunset by her own Mr. McDreamy. Only, of course, after she graduates from med school and solves the whole world peace problem. I am half way there. After all, I have a daughter, and she is fairly bright. (It could happen, dear internet.)
Another romantic fantasy of mine would be to stand up for my sister when she found her Mr. Right. Well, since that is as likely as me sprouting another big toe (not because my sis is a troll, but because she has sworn off all men and bought herself a new pet; one of those vibrating rabbits everyone keeps talking about) I have had to face reality and kiss another delusion goodbye.
That is, until one of my best girlfriends stepped in, and saved the day. She has asked me to be her bridesmaid for her very special day.
I now understand there is a special place in hell for such requests.
Besides the fact that I am now saddled with an expensive dress I will never, ever, wear again, in a colour which leaves me looking like a half-dead corpse found in an old marsh out on the edge of city limits; I have the honour of standing next to the bride and the maid-of-honour. Both of whom, are stunning. Both of whom, wear makeup like academy-award winning makeup artists. Both of whom actually have breasts and can manage to fill out their dresses without those gel-filled chicken cutlet thingies that make me itch.
Both of whom actually look good in their dresses.
I am going to look like a pre-pubescent tween playing grownup in her mommy's makeup while wearing her big sister's prom dress. I can hear my self-esteem slowly leaking away. The icing to this sad, chicken-cutletted cake, is it will all be immortalized for me to remember forever, with the wedding photos. I can't wait to see the one where I whip out my flask to drown my misery, only to have my
cutlets fall out of my bra, and land at my feet.
Yes, that will be me. The one with her hand down her bra the entire night. While slurring her words.
Good times dear internet. Good times.