The Bridesmaid from Hell

Usually when you fly thousands of miles to be in a wedding party, someone (maybe not the bride) is willing to pick you up. Especially when cash flow is tight and taking a taxi or airline shuttle in New York City is prohibitively expensive. Taking into account that you are expected to shell out $400+ for the coast (CA) to coast (NY) airfare, $300- 400 bucks for the generally hideous gown you will only wear once, $30-40 for shoes dyed to match, $50 or so for a manicure and hairstyle, plus the gift that has to, at the minimum, pay for the cost of the per person dinner plate fee ($100+), and it’s a costly endeavor. Never mind the time off from work and flying to NYC in January – the bride is a childhood girlfriend and I was honored to be asked to stand up for her at her wedding.

My parents were out of town being snowbirds in Florida, all of my girlfriends were busy with work and kids, brother and sister were unavailable; and so somewhat miffed (“Doesn’t anyone want to see me?!), I contacted a former boyfriend and he was kind enough to pick me up at La Guardia airport and take me to my parent’s dark empty house. Ok then, the bride-to-be lived directly across the street – she’d be happy to hear from me. I was excited to be back home and ready to meet up with my long-time friends.

Maryann (MA) was happy enough to hear that I had arrived – the rehearsal dinner had been a few days before, so I missed that – but nothing was really planned until the wedding two nights hence. Well, should we plan to get together? After all, I was here for her and to help out with her “Big Day.” With a lackadaisical “Oh, OK – guess you can come with me to the mall tomorrow” response, I hung up and called a few of my other friends in the wedding party. Plans were made to meet after the trip to the mall for manicures and female bonding time. I knew that I had to fit social time in with picking my parents up from the airport in the late afternoon, but it all seemed “do-able”.

My brother arrived home late that night and left me a note saying that I could borrow his car in the morning to go visit MA, but had to have it back by 2 p.m. so he could go to work. He needed his EZ toll pass to cruise over the Throgs Neck Bridge to his job in the Bronx. Ok – this was going to be tricky – but I guessed I could be back in time and take my parent’s car to pick them up at the airport. Then rush over to get my nails done with the girls, a little late, but hey, it could work. Of course, I would need to get back from the mall to my friend MA’s apartment where I planned to park my brother’s car, but I could work that out. It was still a strong possibility of a plan.

So the next day I drove over to the MA’s new apartment, two towns over in Long Island traffic. I checked out her soon-to-be-married shared living quarters and then we jumped in her car, chattering away, and headed to the Roosevelt Field mall. After arriving at the mall, I looked at a clock and realized that my time there was going to be a lot shorter than I had thought originally. Ok, so now I needed to leave the mall in an hour and the bride had just started shopping for her wedding night lingerie. Fortunately, her fiancée showed up just in time to help her with the not-so-unpleasant task, and I had to beg to borrow MA’s car so that I could get my brother’s car back to him on time. This was becoming a logistical nightmare.

None too happy with the prospect of lending me her car, MA handed me the keys and asked me to park directly in front of her apartment, so she could find her car quickly and head to the nail salon. The last thing I heard as I raced out of there was “Do you remember where we parked?”

Of course I did, I thought, while doing the mall speed walk. Directly outside the entrance to Macy’s, a few rows over from the middle. No problemo. Quick as a bunny, I’d get to MA’s place, and then return my brother’s car and everything would be peachy.

Except I couldn’t find her car. Anywhere. I searched every row, every spot, looking for that green Buick Skylark with the fuzzy stuffed animals in the back window. Walking miles outside in the gray chilly day searching, time ticking away, me tearing my hair out, and with feet heavy with dread on the cold pavement, I made my way to Mall Security, certain that the unthinkable had happened – someone had stolen the bride’s car the day before her wedding! There was no other rational explanation. I had walked for hours, and then Mall Security had driven me up and down every row in the enormous parking lot, all to no avail. Stolen cars were a common occurrence at L.I. malls, so the officers did not overly question my rationale.

Somberly realizing that my brother was going to be pissed, my parents left stranded at the airport, MA unable to get her nails done, and my friends upset when I didn’t show up as planned, I was completely stressed and sobbing by the time the policeman approached me to fill out a stolen automobile report. I reported her green Buick Skylark as stolen, gave the police her name and address, had no clue what the license plate number was and asked to borrow the phone to let my family know what had happened. My brother had left already, having taken my parent’s car to work and was not happy about being stuck in the toll lines on the bridge. I had to page my parents waiting at the airport. “Well, it seems as if you have more important things to worry about than picking us up right now,” my mother commented. I then had to track my sister down at school (Special Education teacher) and tell her she had to go to the airport to pick up our parents. Then I had to leave a message for the bride that her car was stolen on the eve of her wedding day. And me? I was stuck there until someone could work it in their schedule to pick me.

Not having eaten in hours and having hypoglycemia to boot, I was shaking & extremely upset when the security officer approached me again and asked if I wouldn’t want to just try one more time to look for the car. The stolen car report had pulled up a different car on the computer – a new forest green Nissan Sentra with the license plate number. I stared at him blankly. “Is this guy serious? Does he think I don’t know what car I rode in to the mall? This is crazy.”

And so to humor him and having nothing else to do but wait, I got back in the security car and watched silently as he searched the aisles. He pulled behind a small green Sentra, looked at the keys in my hand and gently suggested I try the key in the door. “No, that’s not it,” I said, shaking my head. He told me to “just try it.” I stumbled out his car and numbly approached the unfamiliar green car. I put the key in the lock, looked back at him to say “I told you so” and the key turned. I fell against the car in total shock.

Did MA get a new car and I didn’t even realize it the entire ride to the mall? Apparently so. “I’m an idiot!” and “Oh, no – this is bad. Everyone is going to be mad at me now,” were my first thoughts. I turned to wave weakly at the ever-helpful security guard and he drove away smiling. How was I going to explain all this? I half–wished at that point that the car had been stolen, so I wouldn’t look like a total fool.

I climbed heavily into MA’s new car and drove it to her apartment – four hours late – and as she wasn’t home, I parked her non-stolen automobile and headed home in my brother’s car. Wiped out from the ordeal and lack of food, I was weeping as I pulled in the driveway. This was a classic idiot trip. My family was actually pretty nice, all things considered.

My friends were not. As I started to make my apology phone calls, one of my close girlhood friends called in a rage. How dare I stand her up, with her waiting with a three year old at a nail salon for hours? And then put the bride-to-be in a panic, telling her that her new car had been stolen? The bride’s father (a policeman) had heard the report and called her in a fury. How could I be so stupid? So inconsiderate? What was wrong with me?

And just for good measure, she informed me that I was now uninvited to the next day’s bridesmaid’s breakfast and our ritual of getting ready together with the bride. Because I had upset everyone so much, I could just plan to join them later for the staged photos. In short, don’t bother to call anyone else, no one wanted to hear from me that night.

I spent the rest of that night with my parents, silent and picking at the food on my plate during dinner. I went to bed in tears and called my (now former) husband sniffling. He was sympathetic and somewhat angry with how my friends had reacted. My Long Island friends were not always known for their kindness and understanding. The worse thing you could be to this group of friends is an inconvenience and a burden, and that day I had been both.

Having had minimal sleep, I walked across the street to MA’s family house the next day and joined the bridesmaids. Those not directly involved in the previous day’s fiasco were friendly enough, and MA gave me a somewhat forgiving smile.

To make up for my unintentional transgressions, I resolved to be the best bridesmaid ever. I’d been in this role before and knew that I could pull it off perfectly. Super-attentive to the bride and accommodating to everyone else, I pasted a big smile on my face for the photographer. We soon finished with the photos and headed to the church in the cold rain and darkening gloom. Husbands and partners arrived in their finery and smiled as the beautiful bride and her maids lined up to make that long walk down the aisle. My husband had just flown in and gave me the “thumbs up” signal as my turn approached. I had two groomsmen on each arm as I walked towards the altar and we were moving as a team, smiling and inclining our heads to family and guests. I performed flawlessly in my role, not even teetering on the high heels I wasn’t accustomed to wearing. More photos and then off to the limo for the ride to the reception.

Now that the major stress was over, it was time to make toasts, drink and be merry during the limo ride. (Sort of like going to the prom again with these girls, although this time we were of legal age.) It turned out there was too much time to party. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Southern State parkway, eastbound in heavy rain and dead on in rush hour at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday night, the 20 minute trip took an hour and a half.

Since my one friend was still shooting me daggers and giving me the cold shoulder, I chatted it up with Mike, MA’s older brother. He had been a good friend of my brother and I’d known him since MA and I had played Barbie dolls together. A big guy at 6’6” and a New York City Transit cop to boot, , Mike was tossing down various cocktails and generously pouring me an endless stream of cheap champagne. I figured the best way to survive this tension was to get drunk. I was planning on the “happy- dancing on stage with band” alcoholic intake. Instead I stumbled out of the limo drunk off my butt, well into the “getting sick” stage of drinking. Not cool.

I headed off as inconspicuously as possible to the ladies room, lurching with eyes closed as my helpful husband supported me. I faintly heard a few catty remarks, to which my husband shot back “This wouldn’t have happened if you all hadn’t been so mean to her.” In the bathroom, I suffered at the porcelain altar, sobbing incoherently, with makeup running down my face and my stunning hairdo in shambles. One of my long time friends Monica, who’d been in this position with me numerous times before, sighed and helped me not to be so completely pathetic.

The wedding party members were being summoned en masse, to be presented to the crowd by the DJ as they entered the reception hall. There was no way I was in any condition to be seen, and someone dragged me to a tiny coatroom/parlor, where there was a loveseat that I collapsed heavily on. I remember being told to stay there and covered up with a coat. As the night wore on, the door would open and various coats were tossed over my inert form. Once in awhile, a family member or friend would come in to check on me and I heard Mike snickering in the hallway with my brother in tow.

I heard snippets of various conversations through the painful haze that was my reality. “Can you believe this? I thought we got this out of our systems in college. Now look at her – she’s 28 and still can’t hold her alcohol.”

“Some bridesmaid. Thank God she’s not in my wedding party.”

“First she freaks out the bride, telling her that her car is stolen; now she passes out at her wedding. Great friend.”

I groaned inwardly – and probably outwardly as well. This was the worst. Someday I was going to have to laugh about this, but that would be a long time in coming.

Finally having rid myself of enough alcohol in one of the most unpleasant ways possible, I managed to stumble out for the last twenty minutes of the reception, which mainly consisted of avoiding friends and family members and saying good-bye to the bride and groom. I’m sure I appeared before them as the wedding hag, no photographs of me necessary in the wedding aftermath.

The next day I was on an early flight, winging my way back to California with many regrets and nursing a deadly hangover. There had to be some kharmic foreshadowing in my latest fiasco. I couldn’t forget that no one wanted to claim me at the airport before my legendary slide to bridesmaid hell began.

Pending Publication - January 2010