A Delta Book
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
Copyright © 2001 by Laura Wolf
eBook design adapted from printed book design by Lynn Newmark
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Publisher.
ISBN 9780385335836
eBook ISBN 9780804181259
v4.1
a
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface
July 10th
July 12th
July 15th
July 17th
July 18th
July 30th
August 1st
August 1st—11 P.M.
August 2nd—3 A.M.
August 2nd—4 A.M.
August 2nd
August 3rd
August 5th
August 6th
August 7th
August 9th
August 10th
August 11th
August 13th
August 14th
August 15th—12:30 A.M.
August 15th
August 16th
August 17th
August 18th
August 19th
August 20th
August 21st
August 22nd
August 23rd
August 24th
August 25th
August 26th
August 27th
August 28th
August 29th
August 30th
August 31st
September 1st
September 2nd
September 4th
September 5th
September 6th
September 8th
September 9th—2 A.M.
September 10th
September 13th
September 14th
September 15th
September 19th
September 20th
September 22nd
September 23rd
September 24th
September 25th
September 26th
September 29th
October 1st
October 3rd
October 4th
October 5th
October 6th
October 7th
October 9th
October 10th
October 10th—4 A.M.
October 13th
October 14th
October 15th
October 17th
October 20th
October 23rd
October 24th
October 25th
October 27th
October 28th—12:30 A.M.
November 1st
November 3rd
November 5th
November 6th
November 10th
November 11th
November 14th
November 15th
November 18th
November 19th
November 20th
November 22nd
November 23rd
November 23rd—9:30 P.M.
November 25th
November 26th
November 27th—1 A.M.
November 27th
November 28th
November 30th
December 1st
December 2nd
December 3rd
December 4th
December 5th
December 6th
December 7th
December 8th
December 10th
December 11th
December 13th
December 15th
December 16th
December 17th
December 18th
December 23rd
December 24th
Christmas day
December 27th
December 29th
December 30th
New year’s eve—9 P.M.
January 1st
January 4th
January 5th
January 6th
January 7th
January 8th
January 9th
January 10th
January 11th
January 12th
January 15th
January 17th
January 18th
January 19th
January 21st
January 22nd
January 23rd
January 25th
January 27th
January 29th
January 30th
January 31st
February 1st
February 3rd
February 4th
February 5th—2 A.M.
February 5th
February 7th
February 9th
February 10th
February 10th—11 P.M.
February 11th
February 12th
February 13th
February 14th
February 18th
February 19th
February 20th
February 21st
February 22nd
February 23rd
February 25th
February 28th
March 2nd
March 3rd
March 4th
March 6th
March 7th
March 8th
March 9th—3 A.M.
March 10th
March 11th
March 12th
March 13th—1:37 A.M.
March 13th
March 14th
March 15th
March 16th
March 17th
March 18th—3 A.M.
March 18th
March 20th
March 21st
March 21st—10:30 P.M.
March 22nd—1 A.M.
March 22nd—2 A.M.
March 22nd
March 23rd—1:45 A.M.
March 23 rd
March 24th
March 25th
March 26th
March 29th
March 30th
March 31st
April 1st
April 2nd—2 A.M.
April 2nd
April 3rd
April 4th—1 A.M.
April 4th
April 4th—10 P.M.
April 5th
April 5th—11:30 P.M.
April 6th
April 6th—8 P.M.
April 7th
April 8th
April 10th
April 11th
April 12th
April 13th
April 14th
April 15th
April 16th
April 17th
April 18th
April 19th
April 20th
April 21st
April 22nd
April 23rd
April 24th
April 25th
April 26th—2 A.M.
April 26th
April 27th
April 30th
April 30th—10 P.M.
April 30th—10:30 P.M.
May 2nd
May 3rd
May 4th
May 5th
&n
bsp; May 6th—2 A.M.
May 6th
May 7th
May 8th
May 9th
May 10th
May 11th
May 12th
May 12th—9 P.M.
May 13th
May 14th
May 15th
May 16th
May 17th
May 18th
May 19th
May 20th
May 21st
May 23rd
May 24th
May 25th
May 25th—11:30 PM.
May 26th
May 27th
May 28th
May 29th
May 30th
June 1st
June 2nd
June 3rd
June 4th
June 5th
June 6th
June 7th
June 8th
June 9th
June 10th
June 11th
June 12th
June 13th
June 14th
June 15th
June 16th
June 17th
June 18th—1:35 A.M.
June 18th
June 19th
June 20th
June 21st
July 5th
Dedication
Acknowledgments
june 26th
My best friend, Mandy, is getting married, and no one is suffering more than my secretary, Kate.
KATE
I’m an administrative assistant. Not a security guard.
ME
And I appreciate everything you do for me. Didn’t I get you that gift certificate from Saks last Christmas?
KATE
Macy’s.1
ME
Whatever you say. But I can’t talk to Mandy right now. Just take a message.
KATE
I already did that. Six times.
ME
What’d she say?
KATE
“Urgent—Call me.”
ME
It’s a bluff. Tell her I’m in a meeting.
KATE
That’s what I said the first time she called.
ME
I’m in the ladies’ room.
KATE
Used it twice. Once more and we’ll be saying urinary tract infection.
ME
Hey, that’s a—
KATE
Forget it. I have my pride.
ME
All right. Put her through. But if I’m not off the phone in three minutes call my other line.
KATE
You know, this wasn’t in my job description.2
Kate struts out of my office. I wish I could go with her. Instead I pick up the phone.
ME
Hi, Mandy. What’s going on?
MANDY
Just the usual bridal nightmares.
ME
What nightmares? You found the guy. He found you. In just three months it’ll be eternal bliss—
MANDY
Three months and two days.
ME
Like I said…Now relax and enjoy yourself.
MANDY
Oh, you couldn’t possibly understand, Amy. You’ve never been married.
ME
Then why’d you call me?
MANDY
What?
ME
Never mind. Just tell your spinster friend what’s ailing you.
MANDY
You’re mocking me. Don’t mock me.
ME
I’m not mocking you.3
Suddenly there’s loud sniffling on the other end of the phone.
ME
Don’t cry, Mandy. Everything’s going to be okay.4
MANDY
I’m just so tired. Today the florist called to say that her original quote on Holland tulips was under by fifteen-point-seven-eight percent.
ME
Wow! Fifteen-point-seven-eight percent? How’d you even figure out how much that was?
The sniffles become sobs. Did I say the wrong thing? My other phone begins to ring. Kate’s just earned a pay raise.
ME
Oops, there’s my other line. I’ve gotta go. Just remember this is about you and Jon getting married. That’s all that matters.
MANDY
But the tulips are an integral part of our floral concept.
ME
We’ll talk soon!
I hang up. I know I should feel guilty, but all I feel is relief. Moments later Kate returns to my office with a scowl.
KATE
We both know she’s calling back in an hour.
Kate—So young. So wise.
ME
You’re probably right. Now tell me why getting married turns normal people into total freaks?
KATE
Don’t ask me, Ms. Thomas. I’m not married.
ME
That’s why I like you, Kate.5
It’s true and you know it. People who are about to be married magically transform into raging narcissists. They’re like those robot dolls we had as kids. The ones that transformed from a human to a car to a prehistoric animal. Well, put a veil and a string of pearls on one of those T-Rexes and you’ve got yourself a bride-to-be whose personal evolution is powerful enough to sweep every living man, woman, and child into its turmoil. And that’s not malicious. Just fact.
Trust me. I know.
Mandy’s asked me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding this September. On a certain level it’s flattering. She’s been one of my closest friends since sophomore year in college. Stunning, determined—and extremely high maintenance—she’s the only person I’ve ever known who arranged her clothes by season. It’s an odd mix of awe and incredulity that seals our friendship.
But now the terms of that friendship dictate that I appear at her nuptial soiree in a yellow satin dress with an empire waistline. Mandy has convinced herself that the “buttercup” color and the empire waistline are a subtle yet elegant interpretation of Camelot-era gowns.6
Yeah, right.
First off, the fabric may be called “buttercup,” but it’s really “pucker-mouth lemon”—like cheap mustard at picnics and ballparks. Or New York City taxicabs. And only young girls with eating disorders look elegant in empire waistlines. The rest of us look pregnant and dumpy. So you can forget Camelot.
But I’ll wear it and smile. Because Mandy loves it and I love her.
Besides, I’m secure enough to appear in public as a livery vehicle. I’m an attractive twenty-nine-year-old brunette. I’ve even been told that I look like Julia Roberts. The Size 10 version. But shorter. With smaller boobs. So for one day I can endure the shame and humiliation of joining seven other women in pucker-mouth lemon dresses as we cruise down Mandy’s wedding aisle to the tune of three hundred bucks a pop.
Oh, did I forget to mention that part?
And the spewing wallet doesn’t stop there. There’s still the engagement gift, the shower gift, the wedding gift—it all adds up.7 Then there are the eight groomsmen who have to buy suits or top hats or full-body armor (I’ve been too afraid to ask). Not to mention the 250 guests she’s invited to share in this intimate event, which she’s been painstakingly planning for twelve long and laborious months…
I sound callous. I hate that, because I’m not. In fact, I try to be as patient and understanding as possible. I try to remember, as Mandy constantly reminds me, that I’ve never been through this. I really don’t know what it feels like to endure the tumultuous storms that mysteriously accompany weddings. I try to remember that all those insane brides used to be my thoughtful, intelligent, truly enjoyable friends. Women I loved being with. The whole “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” doo-doo.
But it’s difficult. It’s like they’ve been stricken with some Mad Bride Disease. And it’s not their fault—it’s the diet powder they’ve turned to in a desperate attempt to shed those extra ten pounds that
they’ve failed to lose for the last thirty years.
Yet not for a second do I begrudge them their happiness—or their hysteria. I’m thrilled they’ve found soul mates, partners, whipping boys, playthings…Heck, life’s hard. A spouse is an invaluable bonus. No one prepares us for the lonely weekends watching mediocre TV, wishing we had something better to do. Sure, I’ve got a great boyfriend and terrific friends. But boyfriends come and go and friends make other plans. A spouse is always on-call. You can stay at home and do nothing, because you’re doing it together.
But enough is enough. These days every time the phone rings it’s another person calling to say she’s getting married. They’re bursting with excitement, spewing from the mouth, as their joy overfloweth for hours and hours and hours…Wedding dates, seating charts, flowers, registries, hors d’oeuvres, and gifts. Next they’ll be calling about babies and twins and in-vitro fertilization. Hours of birthing details. Placentas, epidurals, and tearing. Do they have to talk about the tearing? Then it’ll be Little League and Cub Scouts and car pools and extramarital affairs and couples therapy and divorce court…Soon I’ll have to get a second phone just to order Chinese food!
Breathe. I must remember to breathe.
The thing that I really don’t understand is the whole desperation to marry. I wasn’t one of those little girls who sat around and fantasized about my wedding dress. I didn’t know how I’d wear my hair or what type of flowers I’d hold. And I certainly didn’t have visions of myself floating down the aisle as hundreds of guests quietly weep into handkerchiefs while whispering in hushed tones about my exquisite beauty. My remarkable poise. My stellar choice of veil.
In fact, I pretty much assumed I’d never get married. I mean, why bother? I’m not religious. My family doesn’t really care. And I have a sister who made it clear from infancy that she intended to lead the most June Cleaver existence possible, thereby assuring my family of at least one joyful nuptial.
I still remember the first week of college, when a girl in my literature class told me in all seriousness that college was our last chance to find a husband. According to her it was the last time we’d be in an environment with an abundance of men of the appropriate age, educational background, and financial strata. I was horrified. Here was an intelligent, good-looking, very young woman declaring that her main goal in college was to meet a mate.8 College was simply an episode of The Dating Game honed to its sharpest point.
By junior year she was engaged to a guy with chronic dandruff and a history of kleptomania. She liked his sense of humor and thought his love of tennis would make him a good dad. She stopped talking to her friends and socialized exclusively with his. They were married two years later. I’m no devil-worshiping Satanist, but I just don’t get it. Wasn’t the whole point about birth control to liberate us from these shackles of dependency? Isn’t that why we had the 1970s? Wasn’t that why halter tops were invented?
And it’s not like I’m “out of touch.” As the Associate Features Editor of Round-Up magazine, it’s my job to know what people in New York are thinking and doing. And not just the Donald Trumps and models of the moment but real people, who worry about public school violence and look forward to eating hot zeppoli at the next street fair. In fact, I’m so “in touch” that I’ve been appointed editor of next year’s “Faces in the City” issue. So I know weddings are important and meaningful events. I just don’t understand why they diminish my girlfriends’ capacity for rational thought, increase their ability to cry tenfold, and entirely vanquish their fashion IQ. I mean, for God’s sake, I look like a taxicab with dyed-to-match shoes.