Bridesmaid Chronicles Continued: A Temporary Insanity

 By Rae Winter B.

There’s a very good reason why people neglect to mention that following being asked The Big Question, and the uttering of that one simple word – yes – an amazing transformation takes place. I’m not talking about that certain glow, the new bounce to the bride-to-be’s step, I am referring to the glint that appears in her eyes - the sheer bloody-minded determination that this is going to be the happiest day of her entire life and nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to get in the way of that. It is possible to keep a low profile during this period of temporary insanity, unless, of course, the bride-to-be decides that it’s now her duty to start spreading this happiness around.  

If she’s happy, then others will be too, damn it. And by ‘others’, I of course mean myself.

Personally, I’d rather crawl back under my single rock and wait for the whole shebang to blow over. This is why it’s with deepest regret that I make the following confession. I fulfilled my role in The Bride’s retinue as the Perpetual Single Friend (PSF). I Facebooked an usher.

I could blame it on the long journey down to Bristol for my dress fitting, or on the half a bottle of wine that my lightweight-self managed to down on arrival in order to smooth my transition into planet Couple-a-tron. But the truth is that too many of my friends have been raising eyebrows at me from the safe vantage point of their relationships when I tell them I am going solo to a wedding, that and I’m easily persuaded.

Them: ‘Oh, a wedding, is it? Are you taking a “plus one”?’

Me: ‘The Bride told me that they aren’t willing to pay for someone that they’ve never met. Unless they’re a partner.’

Them: ‘Well, you know what they say about weddings.’ Cue much eyebrow waggling that some how manages to convey the unspoken words: ‘romantic tryst’. Not a clue, I’d like to reply, and that is one bouquet I will definitely be aiming to miss.

Yet despite my so-called moral standing, with The Bride playing shoulder devil and my shoulder angel presumably too sloshed to care, I took the proffered laptop from her hands, with Mr Usher’s personal profile on the screen and the message box already waiting. I typed in, ‘Rumour has it we’re walking down the aisle together…’ and merrily pressed send.

I’m taking this as the first sign that I might be starting to crack under the pressure. It happened on the weekend of my first official dress fitting, something I’d been anxious about due to the weight I lost since having my measurements taken all those months ago. It isn’t that much, but it was enough for The Bride to be eagerly playing feeder, eyeing every morsel that passed my lips over the two days I was under her jurisdiction, as if looking for an opportunity to shove a cake in after it.

So I was nervous – and more than a little hung-over – the day after my arrival as I invited the seamstress, The Bride and the Mother of The Bride back into the fitting-room, shuffling backwards from the door and hugging the dress to my chest.

The Bride’s eyes narrowed as I smiled winningly at them all (or at least, this is the way I remember it). ‘Let go of yourself,’ she said sharply, as if I had been trying to fit in a quick fondle before they re-entered the room. I dropped my hands to reveal the truth of the gaping dress and the seamstress advanced towards me, pins at the ready. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves as she bent low to grapple with the excess material. Somehow, her bending down to chest level managed to exactly coincide with that one intake of breath; my breasts lifted themselves up and over the top of the gown and hit the poor woman in the face.

She leapt back as I clutched the dress against myself in horror. The room went silent as three women blinked at me. ‘Well,’ said the seamstress, after an excruciatingly long pause. ‘Let’s try that again, shall we?’ Mortified, I nodded. ‘At least now we know that a padded bra isn’t going to help.’

‘There’s one thing I am consoled by,’ said The Bride thoughtfully, focussing on the material sat on my waist as I fought to keep my breasts under control, ‘Despite the breast problem, if you hadn’t have lost any weight at all on the rest of you, we’d actually have to let the dress out.’ Basically what she was trying to say is that I am going to be the world’s first triangular bridesmaid. It’s a good job she hadn’t gone for green dresses as first intended, or I’d look like a Quality Street.

Still, only a few more months left and all this will be over. The first Hen Do is next on the agenda (that’s right, ‘first’). This is the one I’ve been planning, which is rather more responsibility than I’d like, given that my track record so far includes making the bride-to-be cry.

It’s to be a sedate affair. ‘Absolutely no willies on springs!’ The Bride has warned me, as if she’d seen them pop up in my eyes like pound signs at the mere mention of the words ‘hen weekend’. I’m not entirely sure what sort of person she takes me for, but apparently it is someone who likes to wear erotic headgear.

On returning back to Manchester, still brewing over everything that could possibly go wrong with Hen Do No.1 and trying not to think of the seamstress’s expression as my breasts launched an independent attack on her face, I found a message waiting in my inbox. ‘Walking down the aisle together?’ Well, at least one good thing might come out of this…