by Siri Agrell
As my companion and I waited for emergency services to pull the driver (who survived) and his car (which did not) out from under the truck, the traffic jam turned into a makeshift tailgate party. Men and their sons tossed footballs around, women read magazines in the front seat and filed their nails to pass the time, and everyone tried to deal with the inconvenience as calmly as possible. Except for me. I drank warm beer out of a case in the trunk and momentarily considered hitching a ride with a lecherous long-haul driver who yelled filthy pickup lines at me from the collector lane, which was still slowly inching forward on the other side of the highway median.
I could not be late for this rehearsal, I told myself over and over again, and I would risk abduction at the hands of a mesh hat—wearing redneck before I allowed myself to add to my permanent record as a Bad Bridesmaid. I was not going to miss my shot at redemption because some idiot had mistaken a moving truck for a fast-food drive-through window.
Four hours later, having rejected the offer of a ride from Mr. HOW’s MY DRIVING? CALL 1-800-SCREW-YOU, we pulled into the parking lot of a picturesque country church and I leapt from the passenger seat, spilling out along with crumpled cigarette packages and empty beer bottles. I sprinted from the car and slammed through the doors of the church, expecting to see the rehearsal in full swing, the officiant rolling his eyes at my tardiness and a basin of holy water sizzling at my very presence. Instead, there was no one there. I had been phoning my friend The Bride almost constantly, but she was sitting calmly on a lakeside dock with her family, and returned my call just minutes after I dashed into the empty church. She informed me that I must have confused the time of the rehearsal with the hour the ceremony would begin the next day.
I was an hour early.
There were other disasters narrowly averted. On the morning of the ceremony, The Bride realized that she had left time for everything except writing her own vows, and we spent some time in a tearful huddle before I convinced her that no one can really hear that stuff anyway.
The wedding photographer came equipped with canisters of film, unaware that even blind grandmothers are now shooting digital. When it appeared The Bride was going to shove a roll of film up his slow-winding ass, I ran to the martini bar and fetched her a drink, helping calm her nerves between motorized clicks.
When the newlyweds realized they had forgotten the CD with her first-dance song on it at their cottage, I pried her younger brother away from the attractive female guests long enough to make him drive back and get it.
And during the speeches, one of the flower girls climbed onto my lap for a better view. She was four and adorable, and I enjoyed the fact that she somehow sensed we were in this together. When she offered me a stick of lip gloss, I slid it across my mouth, thinking how cute it was that she had brought her own makeup kit to participate in the grown-up event.
“I found it on the floor,” she told me when I had smacked my lips together.
For a moment, I contemplated tossing her off my lap and gargling with champagne, but instead I laughed and chalked it up to karma.
After it was all over, I was actually amazed at how little Id had to do. Part of me had wanted to make a speech or lead the room in a toast, or at least hold The Bride’s flowers while she traded rings.
The logic of women is a mysterious thing, and we often find ourselves craving roles, men, and carbohydrates we had once resolutely shunned. Women who plan nontraditional weddings still want it known that they have friends willing to parade around in a silly outfit for them. And some of us really do try to be good wedding attendants even though we are bad at taking orders and not being the center of attention.
Two months earlier, I had spent the duration of a wedding trying to disappear into my own skin. After successfully making it down the aisle in wedding number two, I found myself thinking instead about Daisy Leach, a ninety-two-year-old British woman who had been a bridesmaid earlier in the year for her forty-five-year-old niece. The Financial Times had reported that Mrs. Leach was supposed to have been a bridesmaid more than seventy years earlier, at the wedding of her brother George in 1929. Two days before the special event, Daisy’s sister Florie, who was just nineteen, was killed on her way to work at Harrod’s department store, when a car hit her bicycle. The wedding went ahead as planned, but the devastated Mrs. Leach did not participate.
Decades later, she told her niece, Gillian Curtis, that she had always wanted to be a bridesmaid, and was granted her request in the form of a blue-and-pink dress and lilac-colored hat.
“My great aunt was absolutely delighted when we asked her,” Gillian told the media. “I suppose her dream of becoming a bridesmaid has come true.”
I thought about Daisy as I stood beside the altar during my best friend’s wedding. From where I was positioned, I could see the expression on her face as she repeated her vows and watch her slide a ring onto her new husband’s finger. As the rest of the church watched the priest and admired the back of The Bride’s veil, I actually saw her get married, the happiness on her face and the sparkle in her eyes as she prepared to seal it with a kiss. Bridesmaids have a unique perspective on the weddings they attend, and, like Daisy, I wouldn’t have given up a second shot at that view for the world.
Not every bridesmaid will make it to that special place without some misfortune, without rolling her eyes or questioning the emotional toll or expense of it all. Most women who take on the role, however, do so out of sincere happiness for their friend and the desire to share their special day. “I love her to death, but …” they would say to me before launching into their stories of bridesmaid hell.
Like me, they all wanted to be a part of the event, dancing and drinking and sending their friend off to her new married life in style.
A lot of us bridesmaids really do our best to be Good in the name of her big day.
But sometimes it’s just so much easier to be Bad.
Acknowledgments
A big thank-you to all the women who contributed stories for this book.
My literary agent, Rick Broadhead, who is all business even without a cell phone, and who knows more about bridesmaids than any man should. Sarah Knight, Patrick Clark, and everyone at Henry Holt; Kate Cassaday, Iris Tupholme, Melanie Storoschuk, and the team at HarperCollins.
Steve Meurice, John Racovali, Doug Kelly, Sarah Murdoch, Anne Marie Owens, and everyone at the National Post for being the funniest people in journalism.
Chloé Raincock, Elizabeth McGroarty, Jenna Greck, Aynsley Toole, Sarah Redekopp, Jessica Johnson, Gillian Hnatiw, Maggie Wente, and Amy O’Brian—the coolest girlfriends a chick can have.
Beth Montemurro, Cele Otnes, Deborah McCoy, and Jennifer Whidden for their insight on all things wedding related.
Kazuyoshi Ehara and Jordana Huber for dealing with my hatred of cameras.
The McGinn and Garcia families for their support.
My family—Tina, Michael, and Kirsty Agrell—for loving me even when I’m bad.
And thanks to brides everywhere, because we really do love you.
bad (bad)
1. Not achieving an adequate standard
2. Evil; sinful
3. Vulgar or obscene
4. Disobedient or naughty
brides-maid (brīdz’mād)
A woman who attends the bride at a wedding
Bad Brides-maid (băd brīdz’mād)
An underachieving, inadequate, sinful, vulgar, naughty, or disobedient bridal attendant. Usually characterized by eye rolling, drunkenness, lack of pantyhose, and an overdrawn bank account
Copyright
Bad Bridesmaid © 2007 by Siri Agrell
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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 978-1-443-40392-4
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
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HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Agrell, Siri
Bad bridesmaid: bachelorette brawls and taffeta tantrums,
what we go through for her big day / Siri Agrell.
ISBN-13:978-0-00-100847-I
ISBN-I0: 0-00-200847-S
1. Bridesmaids—Humor. 2. Weddings—Humor. I. Title.
BJ2065.W43A37 2007 395.2′20207 02006-905840-7
RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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