Being a bridesmaid is an exercise in strange tortures for me. For one thing, there's 'wedding hair.' I vastly prefer my regular hair, which is extremely low maintenance. Two minutes with a blow dryer in the morning and I'm done. Sometimes not even that. Wedding hair, on the other hand, is something that is done to you by a hairdresser. It involves various gels and sprays and bobby pins. You end up with this hard crusty shell on top of your head which basically moves as a unit or not at all. And it inevitably involves long curly things down by your face. I'm sure there's an official term for this which most women know, but I am not in on the secrets of this particular sisterhood. Suffice it to say, I am un-fond of wedding hair.

And then there's 'wedding face.' I am also not a wearer of makeup. I don't own any cosmetics. Well...that's not strictly true. I think I have a tube of lipstick in the pocket of a coat I haven't worn since 1987. (I used to wear it when I was in college. I was making a statement. Someone asked me what the statement was and I said 'the statement is that I'm wearing bright red lipstick.' Duh.) But I haven't worn it in years so that doesn't even count. But if you're a bridesmaid, you MUST wear it. You don't want to be homely in the photos after all. When my sister got married, not wanting to trust to my own severely underdeveloped skills at applying makeup, I presented myself at the Lancome counter at the mall to get a 'MAKE-OVER.' Oh sure, there's something to be said for having an attractive woman leaning all over you, touching your face and telling you you're pretty...but really, it's not worth it. I won't say that I looked just like Tammy Faye Baker, but I will say that I looked like a relative of hers. Besides which, I don't really know how to wear make-up anymore. It may not sound like there's any skill involved in this, but there is. You have to remember not to rub your eyes. Or blow your nose. Or scratch any part of your face which might itch. And your face will itch when there are six pounds of make-up on it and you are not used to that. Trust me.

And then there are high heels. I don't think I'm as ungainly in high heels as your average linebacker...actually, I'm probably more ungainly. Some of those guys are pretty graceful. But not only do I wobble a bit in high heels, but I feel a lot of stress about the possibility of actually falling off them. And stress leads to sweating. And guess what sweating does to your make-up. See above.

But the worst bit for me, at my sister's wedding in particular, was the dress - the wearing of which involved purchasing complicated underwear - mysterious items which would lift and support and yet not leave a hint of a line under your clothing. I had to take a guide with me to help me navigate the strange terrain in the lingerie department. Even buying the dress itself was traumatic. It was a long, sleeveless, dark green velvet number. Any drag queen would have been proud of it. It was shimmery. I, in fact, would have admired it on any drag queen. Unfortunately, when I went to purchase this dress (300 smackeroos, thanks a bunch), there was only one left in the correct color and style. And it was almost my size -- by which I mean that I was a little bigger than the dress. The helpful saleswoman helped me lever and stuff all my various parts into the dress and between the two of us, we did manage to get it zipped. I felt like a sausage in a tight casing. I came out of the dressing room to have a look in the mirrors and asked Nate what he thought. He was about eight at the time. He was thoughtful for a moment. "It's nice, but it looks like all the fat in your body has been squeezed into your arms."

So. The wedding went well. The happy couple is divorced now. Serves them right for forcing me to be a bridesmaid. I mean, what did I ever do to my sister to deserve that??