Suck It Up, You’re The Bridesmaid

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Suck It Up, You're The Bridesmaid

So you’re going to be a bridesmaid. Congrats! Someone likes you just enough to linger overwhelming jealousy over your head for the foreseeable future. He asked and she said yes; then she asked, and you said, “Of course!” because you’re oddly masochistic, and like glitter, groomsmen, and pretty dresses.

It’ll be fun! It’ll be, like, the best thing ever to plan a wedding and stand next to your friend on her special day. You’re basically like a professional wedding planner because you’ve been planning your own wedding on Pinterest now for the last three years. Ugh, you can’t wait. Like, literally, you can’t wait because you’ve got to summon your inner Monica Geller and plan! plan! plan!

You’re going to need to work out. Are the bridesmaid dresses cocktail or full-length? It doesn’t matter. You’ll work out everything every day and post your body transformation on Instagram with #sheddingforthewedding, for both validation and to ensure that you get laid by someone, somewhere that night. Honeymoon suite, behind the groom’s Aunt Liz’s Subaru — beggars can’t be choosers, so you’ll take whatever’s available.

You’ll help the bride pick out the wedding colors, as long as they’re not the wedding colors you’ve picked out in your brain for the imaginary wedding that is happening never, because you’re not even dating anyone, much less engaged.

You’ll go with her to pick out gifts for the wedding registry and convince her that she needs the things you’ve actually had picked out for your own apartment for months now that were just too expensive for you to buy on your single girl paycheck, and hope that she gets something twice so she can pawn it off on you. You will then proceed to hate her when you’re expected to purchase a gift for her wedding show from said registry.

You’ll spend nights on end looking at wedding magazines and The Knot together. You’ll look at her Pinterest board with a fake grin plastered all over your face before you shove your own thoughts and ideas in front of hers (though simultaneously praying to whatever wedding gods who will listen that she doesn’t look at your wedding board(s) for inspiration).

Ugh, she’s having a bachelorette party and you have to drive two whole hours to get there? Hard pass. That’s so not what you would do. Because bachelorette party means bachelor party, and bachelor party means strippers. No, you’re going to have a spa day in a geographically convenient location because you’re the perfect bride.

The nerve of that bitch for planning her wedding her way… And to actually be engaged on top of it? The gall of that woman. I mean, being forced to wear those colors, those dresses, those penis crowns – this is basically like a form of torture, like if you agreed to a type of torture and then got mad because you didn’t get your way.

You should sue.

Image via YouTube

This column originally appeared on

My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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