I’m in my early twenties and I’ve already been in four weddings. Four. And if we’re being honest, it really should’ve been five–but I was quite literally kicked out of one. Well, not literally kicked out (that would be a better story), but I was removed from the bridal party…and the guest list. YOLO, am I right? Kidding. I hate myself for even typing that. There’s not much to be said about that unfortunate situation other than yes, Bridezillas do, in fact, exist. They will expect you to travel from Florida to Seattle nine times in the span of three months, and if you’re unable to do that because you’re, oh, I don’t know a normal human working on a presidential campaign, they will absolutely remove you from their bridal party, their guest list, and their life. Whatever. I’m so not over it.
In all honesty, it probably was for the best that this bride kicked me out of her wedding, if for no other reason than the fact that I behave really, really poorly at weddings. I’m what you might call a desperately single female. Weddings simply serve as a reminder of how truly alone I am: wake up alone, probably die alone, might-just-get-a-cat-and-get-it-over-with alone. It’s not good. So, in an effort to drown my sorrows, I drown my sorrows with alcohol, because the only thing worse than having to be in a wedding is having to be sober and in a wedding. And what do you get when you combine a sad, jealous girl with alcohol? A disaster. You get a disaster.
If, unlike me, you prefer to maintain good, healthy friendships, don’t do what I’m about to suggest. This, dear Internet friends, is a guide on how to be the worst bridesmaid ever.
Since your final dress fitting, you’ve gained fifteen pounds. This means that despite the modern marvels of Spanx, spray tans, bronzer, contouring, a last-ditch effort at bulimia, and Photoshop, you’re still going to be pouring out of your dress in a way that will make every single guest wildly uncomfortable. You’re fairly certain that even Lester, the groom’s pervy uncle, wouldn’t even put it in–and that’s saying something. Because of your just-realized morbid obesity and a particular cunty comment by the 8-year-old flower girl with laughably atrocious bangs and a speech impediment, you’re going to cry in the bathroom beforehand, thus ruining the makeup you just paid the equivalent of twelve Happy Hour gin and tonics to have done. Also, your hair looks stupid. Remember when the bride told you not to cut it, but you did anyway? This is why. Every other bridesmaid looks uniformed (and skinny) with their long, tousled waves. You, however, have a bob. Essentially, you look like a mom…except you don’t have any kids. Why don’t you go cry about it? Kidding. You already are.
You drank a bottle of champagne while having your makeup done. And by champagne, I mean a flask of vodka that you hid from every other person in the room–except for the makeup girl, Tiffany–she’s your new main bitch. Teen moms really get you. While you were busy guzzling grain alcohol at 7 a.m., all of the other bridesmaids were practicing their walk and mentally preparing for their best friend to get married. Because of your unpreparedness and borderline drunkenness, you’re going to trip down the aisle. Not a domino smack down, mind you, but enough of a trip that will make you let out an audible “SHIT!” as you pass by the bride’s grandmother. She’ll give you a death glare, and in turn, you’ll mentally wish upon her a heart attack during the upcoming communion. As you make it to your place at the front of the church, you’ll turn to see your childhood best friend start to walk down the aisle–and that’s when it will happen. Deep, disgusting sobs will begin to overtake you, and before you know it, the priest is interrupting the vows to ask if he needs to pause the ceremony and perform an exorcism. Seriously, you’re embarrassing yourself. After using the extra padding in your bra as a tissue and loudly hiccupping throughout Corinthians 13:4-7, the wedding from hell has finally concluded. One final “get it the fuck together” look from the bride before she walks up the aisle and you are outta there.
It’s 1:30 in the afternoon and you have been flirting with your on-again-off-again boyfriend, blackout, for the past hour. As you stumble around the dance floor (inappropriately grabbing groomsmen and great-uncles) the bride’s mother will approach you with a glass of water and a pitiful look. “LEAVE ME ALONE, KAREN!” you’ll scream at her, before breaking down sobbing. You’ll pull her into the bathroom where you’ll confess all of her daughter’s slutty college adventures, including the time she hooked up with a girl. With Karen now contemplating her newlywed daughter’s potential lesbianism, you’ll be free to wander toward the band and will decide that now is as good a time as any to make your uncalled for bridesmaid’s speech. Thirty seconds and two “fucks” later, the microphone will be pried from your drunk, clammy fingers. You’ll pout for a second and then wink at the drummer and ask if he wants to come see your fish tank. A few dances, five vodka shots, and two boot and rallies later, the maid of honor is tasked with putting you to bed. You’ll wake up on top of a strange comforter, in a strange bed, in a strange city with a horrendous headache and a simple note from the bride: “You ruined my wedding.” Whatever. At least you won’t have to buy her baby presents.