I used to dream Missy would marry my brother, but the dream died when she revealed to me in eleventh grade that she preferred women.
Earlier today, Missy reminded me of the potential to pick up someone at a wedding. But other than Caleb, Seth’s friend from New York, no marriageable men were coming. Of course, he had a date.
“How do I look?” Missy twirled around in her sleeveless black Lycra dress.
A size two and drop dead gorgeous, Missy never had a problem finding a date. Yet, she chose to play the field, never getting serious with any particular woman.
“Fabulous as usual. Can you help me get back into my dress?” I literally needed help due to the amount of Spanx I wore to suck in my problem areas.
I wore one to suck in my thighs, butt, and lower stomach and another to confine my breasts, muffin top, and back fat. Then, I wore pantyhose over it. I wouldn’t be able to bend over, eat, or possibly breathe all night, but at least I’d appear a size smaller.
I panicked when Emily first asked me to be a bridesmaid. I’ve always thought the sole purpose of a bridesmaid dress is to ensure no one looked better than the bride. Luckily, my future sister-in-law decided the bridesmaids could wear their own dresses, as long as it was navy and the hem fell below the knee.
I chose a silk dress which covered the fattest part of my arms and showed a good amount of cleavage, my best feature if I do say so myself.
Since Seth had hired a professional photographer to take family photos, my parents paid for me to get my hair, nails, and makeup done. Emily hired a few beauticians to come to the synagogue and work their magic on the bridal party. I don’t normally wear makeup, but I didn’t want to be the only bridesmaid with a naked face.
When I saw the girl, who later introduced herself as Ophelia, with her blue Mohawk, black lipstick, and hooped eyebrow piercing, I almost changed my mind about the whole thing. My mother convinced me if I didn’t like it, I could always wash it off and do my own makeup.
As it turned out, Ophelia did work magic. She added a thick layer of mascara to my lashes making my brown eyes seem bigger. Then, she waxed my eyebrows, so instead of having bushy Brooke Shields eyebrows, they arched in the sophisticated style of Angelina Jolie. My nonexistent lips normally disappeared on my face, but Ophelia used a dark brown lip liner and filled in my lips with a matte burgundy, creating the illusion I had full lips like Renee Zellwegger after a collagen injection.
Somehow, Ophelia even managed to make my unruly black hair behave. As I explained the dangers of hairspray to the ozone layer, she tamed my hair with massive amounts of non-aerosol hairspray and mousse and pulled back the sides with rhinestone barrettes. It would probably frizz by the end of the night, but at least it looked good for the pictures.
She really earned her overpriced pay when she added acrylic to the short bitten nubs of what I refer to as my nails. Long but functional, square but slightly rounded, I had beautiful nails for the first time in my life. I kept glancing at my hands in awe, as if they belonged to someone else.
Too bad I didn’t have a diamond ring to wear.
Just as Missy zipped my dress, the door to the dressing room opened and Goldman, my brother’s Best Man, peeked his head inside. “Your mom sent me to get you guys. We’re meeting for the Badeken and you and I have to sign the Ketubah.”
Adam Goldman and my brother became friends in middle school, when they got into a fight and my brother sat on him. Apparently that’s all guys have to do to make friends.
For some reason, everyone just calls him Goldman.
“Tell my mom we’ll be right there. And if you ever open the door again without knocking while I’m getting dressed, I’ll kill you.”
Goldman smiled sardonically and nodded before closing the door. I chastised myself for feeling annoyed, when I should be used to it by now.
A year younger and two years behind me in school, I had had a huge crush on him in high school. Whenever my brother excited the room, leaving us alone, he’d ask me questions about school and who I liked. As soon as my brother returned, he’d act as obnoxious as my brother, making crude jokes and bodily function noises.
I thought maybe he liked me and didn’t want my brother to know. One night, when he slept over, my brother fell asleep on the couch while we watched the original “Nightmare on Elm Street.” At the part where Freddy Krueger kills Johnny Depp in his waterbed, I buried my face in Goldman’s chest. While I waited for the scene to be over, he began petting my hair. I tilted my head, sure he’d kiss me. Instead, he said my hair felt like his poodle’s, abruptly ending my crush on him.
I turned to Missy, taking her hand in mine. “Promise me no matter how drunk I get tonight you won’t let me embarrass myself.”