I Was Told There'd Be Cake

by Sloane Crosley

  And I did. And that was seventh grade.

  “I think it would be great if you all lost at least five pounds before the wedding.”

  With her marriage vows just under a year away, Francine was calling on a weekly basis to confirm details and broach paranoias so distant it was hard to make them out on the horizon. “That way,” she continued, “you can all eat whatever you want during the rehearsal dinner and still feel normal the next day.”

  “Normal?” I pinned the phone to my shoulder with my chin and pinched a layer of flesh away from my stomach.

  “But what if people are skinny already?”

  “Oh, God, of course you’re all skinny already. It’s entirely up to you if you want to fast the day before. Or the week before if you do a juice fast. It’s just, well, you know how Helen can get.”

  No, I didn’t know how Helen could get because I didn’t know Helen. I had never met Helen, one of the three other bridesmaids. A stunning expansion on my role as make-believe best friend was the requirement that I also make-believe in a whole web of friends. This would not be the first or the last time reference was made to someone’s personality or husband or cup size. And I was expected to have intimate knowledge of every bit of it, as if the details had been IVed into me in my sleep.

  “I’m sorry, Helen?”

  “Helen Nolan. Lisping gymnast.”

  “Oh, right. Helen.”

  “But she’s taken speech lessons since high school and she sounds fantastic. That is to say, she sounds normal. I think she just gets caught up on the s’s.”

  “Helen went to high school with us?”

  “She was a few years older. Not that Helen has anything to do with it, but I just want my wedding to be as smooth and normal as possible. I want everyone to have an awesome time.”

  “Awesome.”

  “I want everything to be easy for you guys. You’re my friends, not my slaves, right?”

  I couldn’t be sure if this was rhetorical or an actual question, in which case I would need a moment. I was quickly learning that one couldn’t go wrong with giggling as a response to anything she said.

  Example:

  FRANCINE: I’ve just now learned that baby pandas everywhere—as well as some species of seal—are nearly extinct as a result of a rare strain of human influenza that has been traced to a coughing fit I once had at the Bronx Zoo.

  ME: Tee-hee-hee.

  “Seriously, though, no bridezillas here.” She laughed too hard, sighed at the end of it, and slyly removed her own name from the crazy person hat.

  Dietary constrictions were not the only logistical considerations brought up in the calls before the wedding. It was during these calls I came to understand that the “maid” in “bridesmaid” no longer stood for “maiden”—it instead bore the stench of Pine-Sol and dirty dishes. The presence of “maid” combined with the absence of “guest” is lethal. “Friends not slaves” indeed! These calls consisted of various instructions regarding transport to the wedding, table arrangements, the suggestion we wax our legs (“Of course, I would never make you ladies do anything”), and my bridesmaid dress. Here’s a tip for brides everywhere: tell us what to wear and be done with it. A huge mistake is to tell your women that “any dress will do” as long as it’s turtleneck and taupe. Do you think we can’t see through this faux democracy? It’s a bridetatorship. It’s fine; it’s what we signed up for. A wedding is about assumptions—the assumption of forever and the assumption of expenses. Understand that we will be purchasing a dress we would not normally purchase and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Just wrap us in peach crinoline sacks and call it a day.

  This capacity for an executive decision was lost on Francine, replaced by a growing expertise in passive-aggression.

  FRANCINE: I want everyone to pick out their own baby pink plaid.

  ME: Baby what?

  HER: Baby pink. Baby pink plaid.

  ME: Will Boris be wearing a kilt?

  HER: We’re not Scottish.

  ME: You’re not Scottish.

  HER: And I’m having Stacy do everyone’s makeup.

  ME: Stacy?

  HER: You know Stacy! And there’s a fabric store in Yonkers. I’ll give you the directions. They sell all these different plaids in raw silk!

  ME (with a flaming cartoon dollar sign above my head): Raw silk?

  HER: Don’t worry, it’s not too heavy. Don’t want you gals sweating your makeup off!

  ME: How much makeup are we talking about here?

  HER: And you’ll all have a choice this way! And—you know me—I’m making you these gorgeous hot pink headbands as bridesmaid’s gifts!

  ME: Sounds great. How many kinds of pink plaid are there?

  HER: I just want everyone to feel beautiful.

  ME: Why? It’s your wedding. I think you should make us wear burlap.

  HER: They don’t stock burlap.

  The second and far more troublesome kind of call—even worse than the laxative-inducing diatribes on water weight—was the “quick, let’s bond so it makes sense you’re in my wedding” call. With the out-of-town area code betraying her, I’d treat myself by letting her calls go straight to voice mail. But it was plain rude to ignore them all. I didn’t bargain on daily reminders of having to be in Francine’s wedding when I had said “of course,” but there was no turning back now. During this second type of phone call, I learned that she was in business school, had just purchased an antique armoire, and was still allergic to bananas.

  Eventually she began to pick up on my distaste for these conversations. One day we were mid–wedding chat when she said, the way people do, “It’s important to have you by my side.” (When else do we say this to each other in life? Descending into the basement in a horror movie? Whilst storming beaches? Elbow deep in cashmere at a sample sale?) “I consider you to be one of my best friends.”

  “Well, I get that. And I want to be by your side, too.”

  This was a lie, but one she had been fishing for all day. I was below the surface looking up at the hook and thought: We’re gonna be here all day unless I bite.

  “I’m so happy we’re talking like this—I don’t want you to stand up there as this random girl I went to high school with.”

  I was shocked and embarrassed. Exactly! I thought. Why someone who I remembered as priding herself so on marching to the beat of her own mandolin would insist on creating bridesmaids out of thin air was beyond me. Had a society of chick flicks and sororities made her do this? Had the cultural pressures been too difficult to silence? Had they become like the dog next door, barking orders at her? I don’t want you to stand up there as this random girl. All I know is that if I reach forty and don’t have a child, I’m not going to go out and kidnap one. Though not illegal in most states, asking me to be a bridesmaid struck me as a similar act. With this last comment, she had regurgitated the thing I thought most shameful about this entire charade, holding it up in front of my eyes so I could get a good look before she repeatedly smacked me over the head with it.

  “And you know what they say,” she sang in her Latin club alumnus voice, “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It is sweet and glorious to die for one’s country.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “You mean of course it is.”

  I couldn’t make sense of it and, stupidly, it never occurred to me to try. I stopped picking up the phone and started responding to e-mails only. I went through the motions, drove to Yonkers, bought the plaid fabric, had the fabric tailored to her specifications, bought the shoes, had the shoes dyed. For the shower, I chose a large registered-for hamper from Pottery Barn tall enough to lean on as I struggled to keep “dirty laundry” references out of the card. In the end it read: “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials!” Nuptials. Sounds like something you get a case of. I felt a case of the nuptials coming on so I had a full-body fiancé. I lugged the basket to the shower,
where it was my duty to create a hat out of discarded gift-wrapping ribbons and a paper plate.

  “Take this.” Francine tossed a circle of thin white cardboard into the basket lid. I put down my load, picked up the plate, and headed toward the buffet table.

  “No”—she spun me around—“this is the basis for le chapeau you have to make me.”

  Please. Le chapeau you have to make me, please.

  With no seats left, I plopped down on the floor and ripped a hole in the center of the plate with my teeth. I watched as thirty grown women feigned enthusiasm over a salad spinner. Sitting at Francine’s feet as she opened her gifts, I felt like Santa’s prized elf and began to take my hat construction very seriously. I crafted under-neck ties and strategically placed bows tied to the front of the plate so as to foster ideal plate-to-skull balance. I pretended to know things about physics. I pretended to know things about design. I pretended this was fun. So intent was I on creating the world’s best bow bonnet, that the average partygoer would have mistaken me as an impeccable girlfriend. I even had the fleeting thought that this was a headpiece twelve-year-old Francine would have worn with pride.

  When the hat was almost ready to wear, I spotted a long sturdy-looking ribbon that would have turned my crafts project from a hat to a work of art. It was dangling from Francine’s chair and she was sitting on it. I considered my options and, having decided that the ribbon and I had a date with le destiny, yanked it as hard as I could out from under her. Apparently the ribbon had its own destiny to fulfill. The front of Francine’s wrap dress fell gaping open, transforming it into a plunging neckline worthy of double-sided tape. She screamed in mock horror.

  “Thank goodness it’s just us girls!” exclaimed her mother.

  I decided that the hat was good enough.

  For the remainder of the shower, I took solace in a feast of mini bagels, mimosas, and cookies glazed to look like wedding bells and then covered in those gunmetal candy balls that give you rat cancer. Cast from unholy molds, there were also white chocolate brides-on-sticks. Bridal pops. As the chorus of women cooed at the unwrapping of a Crate & Barrel spice rack I caught a glimpse of Francine’s great-aunt on the loveseat, gnawing at a bride’s head with her gums. I lifted my plate of refined sugar and gave her a knowing wink but a cataract prevented any reciprocation. I became intensely jealous of her toothless grin and low-grade halitosis and the solitude it afforded her in a room full of vibrant women.

  After the shiny exoskeleton was ripped from every box, I was summoned to take an aerial picture of all the women in the room with their engagement rings. Francine put her hand proudly on top. It was a cluster of skin and diamonds. Shrieks of “Take one with mine! Take one with mine! Did you take one with mine yet?” echoed across the living room. They bounced between the family portraits with the bichon in bows and ricocheted off the giant paisleys on the wallpaper. Women reached for their cameras with one arm, while holding their place in the hand pile with the other. If I had any remote inclination toward marriage—not an unhealthy Bridget Jones fascination, but the fundamental idea of someday finding my other duck-billed platypus and maybe buying a bridal magazine for duck-billed platypuses—this would have been cruel. They lucked out when they handed camera after camera to me.

  I have never pictured my own wedding. I do want to get married. It’s a nice idea. Though I think husbands are like tattoos—you should wait until you come across something you want on your body for the rest of your life instead of just wandering into a tattoo parlor on some idle Sunday and saying, “I feel like I should have one of these suckers by now. I’ll take a thorny rose and a ‘MOM’ anchor, please. No, not that one—the big one.”

  This philosophy works but it also prevents me from getting a clear visual on me-as-bride. I have seen wedding dresses and thought they were beautiful but have never taken that crucial step further of envisioning my body in one. I have never scouted locales or eyed cakes through bakery windows. The one time I stood near the engagement rings at Tiffany, I got yelled at for leaning on the glass.

  I guess my bridal party fantasy would have all my close guy and girlfriends sharply dressed and sitting in the front row with my family so I could look out and see them lined up like a collection of Pez dispensers. Maybe they could wear a lace ribbon of solidarity on their shirts, as if marriage were a cause and my wedding the cure. The only bit I have pictured in any detail is the music (maybe “The Book of Love” by the Magnetic Fields. Or Johnny Cash’s “It Ain’t Me, Babe”). It doesn’t matter if the selection is slow or fast, but couples shouldn’t scramble to select it. If you have ever gone dancing or on a road trip or had a romantic bout of serenaded sex on a winter night, you should have a few to pick from. If not, you probably shouldn’t be getting married.

  Out of a hat (literally—there were strips of paper involved), Francine had chosen “When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

  When smoke blows up your ass.

  Then, sometime between the shower and the wedding, the disaster happened. An e-mail arrived from Francine. It began, as all e-mails pertaining to this event did, with a “Ladies:”. Ladies. Large masses of girls are often prone to this salutation. Once is fine, twice is acceptable, any more than that and I feel like I’m having high tea at Windsor. I hate being mollified with this unsolicited “ladies” business. I know we’re all women. I am conscious of my breasts. Do I have to be conscious of yours as well? Do men do this? Do they go “Men: Meet for ribs in the shed after the game. Keg beer, raw eggs, and death metal only.” I would imagine not. I vowed the next person who addressed me as “ladies” in rapid succession was getting a Stuart Weitzman shoe shoved up her taffeta.

  The e-mail suggested that we all get together for a last-minute bachelorette party the following night. Mixed drinks, penis quizzes, plastic tiaras, the works. But I had unbreakable plans. Plans I had made months before with a friend who was leaving the country for two years and with whom I had actually spoken in the past decade, on multiple occasions no less.

  “I know this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing for you,” I e-mailed my apologies. “But also once in a lifetime: one of my closest friends moving to Addis Ababa.”

  Francine called again, this time with the double agenda of logistical and emotional concern. She renegotiated. Since I was unable to attend the impromptu bachelorette party, perhaps I’d be interested in a long and pricey train ride to Boston to stay on her pullout couch and meet her fiancé? Say, this coming weekend? Or maybe I could get the whole week off work?

  “I just want you to meet Boris and spend some quality time with him before the wedding,” she pouted.

  I felt guilty not giving her the bare minimum of what she needed. How inept at this bridesmaid stuff could one person be? But it seemed she “just” wanted a lot of things lately. Every request was minimized to the maximum (see: “I ‘just’ think it would be great if you wrote a poem in iambic pentameter for the candle-lighting ceremony”). Yet, even for her, she was disproportionately and irrationally upset. The kind of upset that incurs visions of Leslie Nielsen slapping a hysterical passenger à la Airplane while nuns with baseball bats wait in line to do the same.

  “I’m so sorry. I know, maybe if I had more notice I could have—”

  “I want you and Boris to be as good friends as we are!”

  It was time to put my foot down. Or at least my toe. I’ve never been particularly fond of Boston as it is, having been dragged to Cheers as a child and nearly falling out of a swan boat. It’s also too many white people in fleece, too many inconvenient modes of transport, too much Big Dig. It would take the love of my life being there for me to go. And Francine was not the love of my life. She was the love of this Boris person’s. She didn’t need me. Then, as I was at last ready to stand up and put an end to this just-add-saline bonding, she stopped me in my tracks with: “I only wish you could be there since you’re the maid of honor.”

  “Horror” is a six-letter word. So is “fuck me.” For all my female friendship
foibles, I do posses an instinct or two about my own kind and I knew, as sure as you can know anything, that you can say no to being maid of honor. It’s a job. People have turned down jobs before. I asked her, as gently as I could, when I had ascended to the throne. She said that I had inquired if there was a maid of honor months ago during one of our small talks about big things. She had said there wasn’t one and I had replied quickly—like a nail being driven into a coffin with a single stroke—“Good to know.” Three. Little. Words. How could I have allowed such massive fuckuppery to occur? I kept her on the phone as I looked on her wedding website and she was right—there I was, “Sloane Crosley, Maid of Honor, Francine’s Best Friend.” Apparently she had her own mental Rolodex and I had been misfiled in it from the beginning.

  I suppose, considering the fact that it takes only three little words to express affection and two little words to legally consent to marriage, her reasoning was plausible. Still. I wondered if all her life’s decisions since I had known her had been based on such subtleties of conversation, and it took everything I had to stop from asking, Are you sure you’re engaged?

  What an atrocious maid of honor she must have thought I was. I didn’t fold so much as a single paper crane for her. I apologized repeatedly and profusely about not coming up to Boston. Eventually she forgave me and, unable to attend the four lunches in the week leading up to the wedding due to a violent case of fake mono the likes of which my person had not seen since the AP biology final of ’95, I did force myself to heal for the rehearsal dinner. While it is important to develop something chronic at times like these, the rehearsal dinner had an air of nonnegotiability. I healed fast and even managed to regain the weight I had lost during my bout of faux glandular fever on the drive over.

  Despite being five minutes early (thank you, Dad), I was the last of the bridesmaids to arrive. When I walked into the restaurant in downtown White Plains, Helen was there to greet me. She had sprained her ankle on a trampoline the day of the shower (an injury that struck me as so unusual I had the flickering hope that Helen was trying to get out of these wedding events as well). But I knew this was Helen because she wore a shirt that read “Parallel Bars” and had a silk-screened picture of her and some drunk gymnast friends. And because she called me “Thloane.”