I was also getting the distinct feeling that every time I spoke, they were just waiting to transition the conversation back to their impending nuptials. There were suddenly too many “oh, speaking of [insert literally anything I said that had nothing to do with weddings here]” segues back into bridal talk for me to feel like they were actually listening.
Even Becca, who had always been ready to drop everything to grab a drink, get a pedicure, or binge-watch the latest show with me, had moved on. That date with Will had quickly been followed by second, third, and thirty-seventh dates. At the speed they were going, they were likely to have kids any day now.
Alex and I had been hanging out a decent amount, and the fact that none of my normal crew were available was good for my bank account. Caryn was always talking me into the clothes I didn’t need, Megan into the restaurants I couldn’t afford, and Becca into the carryout more nights than we should.
And it wasn’t like the blog was earning me any real money yet. Dress shopping may have been over, but Caryn’s ridiculous email missives (and the follow-ups from Caroline and her minions) had continued to provide excellent fodder. As had my mother and sister’s running discussion about every wedding decision, which they felt the inexplicable need to conduct through three-way calls and group chats with me. But growing an audience was a slow process, and I was only making a few dollars per post so far.
Then again, this latest email was so out of the realm of realistic that my readers might think I was just making things up. I wondered if Caryn had always been this nuts and I somehow just hadn’t seen it.
“Knock, knock,” Caryn said, pushing the door open.
My eyes went to the notifications on my computer screen. Eighteen replies. I blinked heavily. “Hey.”
“Everything okay? I didn’t hear from you.”
“Yeah, was just on a phone call.” Unlike the rest of your bridesmaids, I work, I wanted to tell her. A thought dawned on me. “Are you still going to work after you get married?”
She looked taken aback. “I—well—at first, yes.”
“At first?”
“Well, not when I have kids, of course.”
My mother worked up until last year, when the last of her children finished college and she finally retired. My father would happily work until he was a hundred and twenty, if he lived that long, both because he loved his job and because he wouldn’t last long without an excuse to leave the house. So the idea of becoming a stay-at-home mom, especially one who would probably also have a nanny, was foreign to me.
“Are you planning on kids soon?”
“Well not immediately. But probably in a year or so. I’m not getting any younger and egg quality deteriorates after thirty-five.”
Was I a terrible person for debating how worthwhile it was to stay in her wedding? When we would only work together for another year or two at most? And apparently have nothing in common by then?
She shook her head. “Why do you ask, anyway?”
I tried to banish the disloyal thoughts. “No reason. Just curious.”
“So, dates are okay?”
“Yeah, should be fine,” I said absently. Then I thought about it. “Wait. Bachelorette might be a problem, depending on the weekend.”
Her eyebrows didn’t move, something I hadn’t really realized before, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”
“My brother’s wedding in Mexico is the second weekend in May.” I grimaced. “Actually, the shower could be an issue too. It depends on when my brother’s and sister’s showers and bachelorette parties are.”
“Well, if they haven’t planned them yet, doesn’t mine take priority?”
I set my jaw. “Imagine if it were Olivia’s wedding versus mine. You have to go to the family events.”
“But you’re not getting married.”
“I didn’t mean that literally. I might be flying to Chicago with my mom and sister for my sister-in-law’s shower, and I have to be at the events for my sister.”
“But I asked you to be a bridesmaid first.”
I mentally contrasted the reactions of Caryn and Megan, who would have said family absolutely came first (after saying that there was still a zero percent chance of Amy actually getting married).
But it wasn’t worth fighting this fight when I didn’t even know if there was a conflict yet. “Hopefully it’ll all be fine.”
She seemed mildly placated by that. “You’ll need to work with the other girls to figure out shower and bachelorette. Don’t let Caroline shut you out. She did that to a girl in Deanna’s wedding and it wasn’t pretty.”
“Got it.” I turned back to my computer screen, preparing to read the now twenty-two emails.
She started to say something else, but stopped herself and walked out. I breathed a sigh of relief. Where had my friend gone, and who was this psycho walking around in her skin?
The first several emails were benign enough, but then, of course, Caroline responded.
Do you have a requirement on eyelash length? And what about hair color? I was planning to get my balayage refreshed the week before the wedding, so I need to know what color you want us to have.
And then, even more ridiculously, Caryn had replied, with actual numbers of how thick the lashes should be and how long.
Was this for real?
But the last several of the messages were a different thread, started by Olivia, which didn’t include Caryn. The subject was Vegas or New Orleans?
With an ever-growing sense of trepidation, I opened Olivia’s original email.
And now it’s our turn. Girls, we need to plan the most epic, be-all, end-all bachelorette party for Caryn! I know she said small, but come on, we all know that’s not what she wants. So the question is, Vegas or New Orleans?
Vegas, Deanna replied. It’s the classic bachelorette party locale.
What about Paris? Mia asked. That way we don’t have to deal with all of the trashy people.
New Orleans is the perfect compromise, Caroline said, giving what was apparently the final word. My sister-in-law owns a travel agency. We’ll go down May 10–13. I’ll arrange everything. And I’ll book my club for the shower on May 5.
Jake and Madison’s wedding was May 11. On the one hand, great. I didn’t have the money for a trip to New Orleans, especially not on the scale they were going to want to do it, and I definitely didn’t have any desire to go on a trip with them.
But should I ask if there was an alternate weekend or just say, “Oh no, so sorry, have fun”?
There was also the issue that Caryn had just told me not to let them steamroll me, and she said she wanted a simple bachelorette party, which a three-day binge in New Orleans was not.
While I debated what to do, another email pinged in from Caroline.
With airfare, if we do two to a room at the Ritz, it’ll work out to about $1800 a person for the trip, not including spa days and all that. But we’ll cover Caryn, of course, so it’s actually $2200 a person and then incidentals, so plan on about $3000 total, but you’ll only owe me $2200.
Three thousand dollars for three nights in New Orleans? Was that a thing? And the Ritz? She was kidding, right?
I called Megan back and hissed an outline of the latest emails to her. “Must be nice,” she said.
“Nice? To ask your friends to spend three grand each on your bachelorette party?”
“Nice to be able to afford to do that.”
I had assumed we would do a night of barhopping for Megan’s bachelorette party. Did she want something bigger? And dear God, what if they all did?
“Do you want to do a trip for yours?” I asked quietly.
“I mean, I’d love it. But it’s too much money. So no.”
Another email pinged in and I told Megan I had to go, feeling like the world’s worst friend. I wasn’t spending three thousand dollars on a bender for Caryn, but I wished I had the money to do it for Megan, if that was what she wanted.
The latest email was also fro
m Caroline. Renting the party room at her club, with catering, would run approximately a thousand dollars each, depending on how big the guest list was.
I pushed my chair back and went to Caryn’s office in a panic.
“What’s up?” she asked, looking at my wild-eyed face. “Are you okay?”
I sat down shakily in the chair across from her. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t be in your wedding.”
She blinked several times at me. “Because of the shower and bachelorette party dates?”
“No, I—Caryn, Caroline just emailed that she wants each of us to spend three thousand dollars on a trip for your bachelorette party and another thousand on your shower and I don’t have the money for that.”
“Did you tell Caroline that?”
“Well—no.”
“Don’t you think you should start there, rather than dropping out of the wedding?”
“I—” I didn’t want to admit that I was too ashamed to tell Caroline I couldn’t afford it. My shoulders dropped in resignation. “I can try.”
“And I don’t want a fancy trip. Tell them I just want something simple, like I said in my email.”
“Okay,” I said, my face puckered in anxiety. I got up and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Lily—”
“Yeah?”
“I can give you my doctor’s name if you want a recommendation for some Botox. Just a little, to smooth those lines out.”
I gritted my teeth. “Thanks. Just email it.”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Back at my desk, I read the most recent emails, all agreeing that the Ritz and Caroline’s club would be perfect, then hit “Reply All.”
Hi everyone. Unfortunately, I’m out of town that weekend for my brother’s wedding in Mexico. I also just talked to Caryn, who said she definitely doesn’t want a trip—she wants to do something simple and closer to home. And is there any way to cut down on shower costs? Maybe we do the favors or flowers or the food ourselves?
Let me know your ideas—I’m happy to put in as much manpower as we need!
The reply took longer than I expected—nearly half an hour passed before Caroline’s email came in.
Lily,
The rest of the bridesmaids and I just had a phone conference, because frankly, we’re SHOCKED that you would spoil the surprise to Caryn within minutes of the plan being hatched. What kind of person does that?
We then called Caryn, who was ecstatic over the idea of a trip to New Orleans—it’s her favorite place in the country, after all, so I don’t know what kind of trip you told her about, but she DEFINITELY loves the idea—even though it’s not a surprise anymore, thanks to you.
As for the shower, no. My club does not allow for outside food vendors or personal catering. And unless you’re a professional florist or cookie designer, then no, the flowers or favors will not be an option either.
We’re sorry that you won’t be able to attend with us. You can Venmo me your share of the money to this email address. It will only be $1,750 for the accommodations with you not coming, but send $2,000 to cover your share of food, drink, spa, and incidentals for Caryn. And an additional $1,000 for the shower.
And in the future, please talk to us before you go running to Caryn.
Thanks,
Caroline (and the rest of the bridesmaids)
Welp. That went about how I expected. Except there was a zero percent chance that I was Venmoing Caroline three thousand dollars. And not just because I didn’t have it.
I cracked my knuckles and hit “Reply All” again. I didn’t work in PR for nothing. I knew how to talk to horrible people.
Dear Caroline et al,
I’m afraid I will not be paying for the party that I will not be attending. I’ll make my own apologies to Caryn on that front.
As for the shower, please keep in mind that I am working on a fixed budget. I will do my best to chip in my share, but we may hit a point at which I cannot go higher. I will try to rework my budget to cover my share of the costs that you’ve outlined so far.
Thank you for your understanding.
—Lily
I marched back to Caryn’s office but didn’t sit down this time.
She looked up warily. “Am I about to get another angry phone call over this?”
“Possibly. But I’m here to tell you that I will be unable to attend your bachelorette party. It’s the weekend of my brother’s wedding. And just so you hear it from me, not them, I’m also not paying two thousand dollars for a trip that I’m not going on.”
“I’m sure they don’t expect you to pay that.”
I shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. Just be aware that when they call you, that’s where I’m at.” Her cell phone started buzzing on her desk. “Right on cue.” I looked at it pointedly.
She sighed. “I really don’t have time for all of this right now. Can’t you just try to get along with them? For my sake?”
The phone stopped ringing, then began again. Caryn picked it up. “Hi Caroline.” She nodded. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Actually, she’s here with me right now. No, she told me that. I mean, it is a lot of—” She paused as Caroline cut her off. “Oh. I mean—well—let me ask her, hang on.”
“If we do it the next weekend, will you come to New Orleans then?”
“No. That’s my best friend’s bachelorette party, and I still don’t have the money.”
She pursed her lips. “She said she still can’t come,” she said into the phone. “Look, do you want her phone number so you two can talk about this directly?”
I shook my head frantically and mouthed, “No!”
“Well, you need to figure it out. I’m not getting in the middle here. I can pay my own way if I have to. No, I wasn’t implying that. Caroline, I’m grateful for everything you do. Yes. I know, you just want to make sure everything is perfect and I appreciate you so much for that. Lily just didn’t grow up like us. It’s different for her.” Long pause. “Thank you. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you too.”
She hung up the phone and turned back to me, still standing in her doorway. “Okay, I explained,” she said. I didn’t hear anything that sounded like an actual explanation, unless it was the implication that I grew up poor, but okay. “But Caroline has a point too that it’s not fair to ask everyone else to pay for my trip and for you to not help. So maybe if you can chip in some, it’ll smooth things over. It doesn’t have to be the full amount.”
“Are you serious right now?”
She rubbed her temple. “Lily, come on. We’re all adults here. There’s no reason for all of the drama.” She picked her phone back up. “I’m texting you both so you have each other’s numbers. You can work it out yourselves.”
“I don’t want her having my number.”
“Look, you said you’d be in my wedding. I told you what they were like and you said it was fine. Can you just stop being a drama queen and handle it?”
I was stunned into silence. A drama queen? Me?
“Fine,” I said quietly, and left her office without another word.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fuck. These. Weddings.
There. I said it. Even if I’m really just shouting it into the void because like six people are reading this blog right now. But I’m ready to drop out of all of them. Literally all of them.
Bride A, which apparently stands for Asshole, went so far beyond the realm of human comprehension today that I actually don’t think I want to be her friend anymore. Not only did she suggest I get Botox—literally, she told me to put poison in my face—but she also expects me to shell out two grand for her bachelorette weekend AT THE RITZ that I won’t even be attending because I’ll be at my brother’s wedding in Mexico.
Look. I played along when she made me get a minimizing bra and Spanx. I laughed it off when she only rejected my joke about getting a breast reduction because I would be too swollen to get an accurate dress size measurement. But she is so far over the line here that she can’t even SEE the line
from where she’s standing.
But all of that said, she’s a delight compared to her future sister-in-law, who makes Regina George from Mean Girls look like Snow freaking White.
And Bride B? Girl, I love you, but you need to grow a pair! She literally asked ME to tell her mother that I didn’t want a black bridesmaid dress (I would LOVE a black bridesmaid dress—I dress like I’m on my way to a funeral most days anyway) because she didn’t have the guts to do it herself.
Technically Bride C hasn’t done anything wrong. Okay, she’s been a little insensitive, but that’s not really anything new. But there’s this groomsman who is actually kind of awesome and I can’t do anything about that because of the other groomsman, so I’m over that wedding too.
Bride D—I still don’t know her. But my mom made me feel fat over her bridesmaid dress, and I have to take my grandma to Mexico in order to afford to even go to that wedding. So that one is tainted now too.
And my darling little sister. Can we call a spade a spade and stop the farce now? You’re not getting married. You’re a child. And I can’t return the dress that looks like a chewed-up piece of Bubblicious, so let’s cut the crap before I have to spend more money on your make-believe wedding, please.
I have had enough!
And I’m going to . . . do absolutely nothing about it except rant in this blog that no one is reading because I’m too chickenshit to cut ties with any of these people.
Cool.
Any advice? Anyone reading? Is anyone alive out there?
A tiny voice in my head told me to cool down before I published this one, but I mentally gave it the finger and hit “Publish” anyway. My previous posts had been fairly benign and had gotten me almost nowhere. Go big or go home, right?
Hell with it, I thought and grabbed my coat. I was going home too. It didn’t dawn on me until much later that I probably shouldn’t have used my work computer to post something personal.
For the Love of Friends Page 14
