Always a Bridesmaid (for Hire) Read online

  Dreaming, I’ve learned, can be really fun. It gets my body all jittery and my mind working like it’s running full speed on a treadmill for the first time in months. But the problem with dreaming is that when I’m done, I’ve exhausted my mind for the day and have nothing to show for it. I fold my mental notes together and stick them back in a manila folder labeled, “Eventual Plans to Take Over the World.” But I forget about them. Or my to-do list makes me forget about them or someone else tells me I’m better off forgetting about them.

  “Either do or dream, but don’t wait too long to make that decision,” he grumbles. “When you’re eighty-two, it’s a hell of a lot harder to get your ass out of bed in the morning. That’s when you’re better off dreaming.” He laughs like a caffeinated hyena, and all of a sudden, for the first time in our twenty-minute relationship, he shows me something I never thought I would see: he smiles. He smiles right at me, his front incisors almost blinding me with their perfect shine, and in that very moment, I have no choice but to love him.

  Maybe the people I admire from a distance for their inspiring and successful lives are inspiring and successful because they’ve failed so many times behind the scenes—and I have no clue about it. It’s not like people post their latest failures on their Twitter account, or speak about them when they’re on a Good Morning America segment, or add them to their website beside their beloved testimonials.

  It’s been eight months since I posted an ad on Craigslist that sparked a business I didn’t even know was possible. But after I took a chance and posted that ad, I was scared to try anything else. I was scared to make a plan to expand the business, I was even more nervous to hire people, and I had become too attached to let anybody else step in and help me. According to Ray, I was scared of ruining something that would expire if I didn’t take action, which was paralyzing me even more.

  “Get out of my office, Jen.” His lips curl upward in what must be a smile. “And come back when you’re ready to fail, fail, fail.”

  I leave there feeling like somebody pumped all of the oxygen out of my lungs. My legs are shaking and my mind is twisting around Ray’s words as I walk the four blocks north and two blocks south to get home.

  I can barely explain my Saturday morning to Kerri when I get home, saying only that I met somebody who spoke to me in a way that nobody else had ever spoken to me, and that for some bizarre reason, I had a feeling he was going to be the person who could jolt me out of my slump—and maybe even change my life. I couldn’t wait to see him again, but I didn’t know when that was going to be.

  The next day, as I sit down to make a list of things I’m going to attempt, things that terrify me the most and don’t promise me success, I flip open my computer and check my email. At first, I see only deals for 50 percent off on Match.com and 40 percent off a new (and much-needed) blouse from Ann Taylor Loft. But there’s also an email I didn’t think I’d see so soon. It’s from Ray.

  I’ve been thinking about the meeting we had yesterday. I think it would be beneficial to have another one. What Saturday in March can you come back? One more thing, Jen. Remember this: regret is what makes you human; failure is what makes you a hero.

  I smile so wide that it feels like my jaw might unhinge. This feels better than waiting around for that postdate text from a guy you really enjoy splitting a bottle of half-priced chardonnay with on a first date. It even, I admit, feels better than having your boss call you in to tell you that you’re getting an 18 percent raise.

  I write back immediately, not wasting any more time:

  Book me for every Saturday in March. I’m ready to learn how to fail like a hero.

  chapter fifteen

  Oh, You’ll Totally Wear It Again

  (Twenty Things You Can Really Do with an Old Bridesmaid Dress)

  There are some bridesmaid dresses that are plain old eyesores, ones that make you look like a life-sized fruit parfait or strawberry cupcake, even after you pay someone seventy-five dollars to put your hair up in a sleek and modern french twist. Then there are some dresses that, if the fabric is a certain kind of satin, charmeuse, or chiffon, and the sun is hitting you in all the wrong places, you might find your skin literally crawling.

  It’s true. It happened to me once. I zipped on a black bridesmaid dress cut from georgette fabric for a late May wedding, and my skin immediately broke out in hives. I was posing for a picture with the bride when all of a sudden, I slapped her accidently in the chest. My body suddenly felt that it was being hit with a fire torch, burning and itching wherever the dress rubbed against my skin. My hands were scratching and flailing, and before I knew it, I had cherry-red bumps all up and down my limbs. I looked as bright as a ladybug.

  The mother of the bride’s cousin handed me two pink pills, and I swallowed them immediately, realizing, only right before, that I was about to take my very first step down the aisle while hopped up on Benadryl: Extra Strength. I tiptoed my way up to the altar, drool slipping off my lips, my head lolling to the side.

  I had broken out in hives only one time before that, when I was seven and made cookies with a bottle of expired vegetable oil. But all in all, my body was pretty good at handling foods, insect bites, and even different fabrics. It just didn’t have a tolerance for ugly bridesmaid dresses.

  When the wedding was over and I was still partially zonked out, my head practically resting on a whipped-cream-stained dessert plate, the bride came over to me and said, “Well, it looks like this is one bridesmaid dress you probably won’t wear again.” I was too out of it to tell her that even if this dress didn’t make my skin sting, I would probably never wear it again.

  Brides always trick themselves into believing that the dresses they pick out for their bridesmaids will be something they can toss on again, as casually as a T-shirt or a beach caftan. It helps curb the guilt of asking friends and family to crack into their savings accounts. But I always want to ask these adorably naive brides where they think I’ll wear this dress again. My social calendar is filled with solo Netflix and chill nights, not with invitation-only galas and balls at the Waldorf Astoria. Sure, I could wear it again to another wedding when I’m just a guest, but I’d prefer to spend my off-duty time not looking, acting, or feeling like a bridesmaid. I’d prefer to swap out the duchess satin knee-length lavender number for something Angelina Jolie would wear to the Oscars (or a knock-off version from T. J. Maxx, of course).

  The truth, dear brides and bridesmaids, is that you will never wear those dresses again. Even if your heart has good intentions and you’re trying to brainwash yourself into thinking a dye job and some tailoring will earn the dress front-of-closet status, we ’90s babes know that a hot-pink mesh tank top from Hot Topic is a mesh pink tank top from Hot Topic: we can do what we want to it, but we will never be able to wear it again.

  So if your closet is the size of a double-wide sleeping bag and you don’t want to use up the precious real estate with body bags filled with polyester, chiffon, and satin, here are some practical alternatives that won’t have you stuffing those dresses underneath your bed. (I wonder if monsters look good in blush?)

  1. Leave it in your hotel room as a gift for housekeeping since they’ll probably have to clean up after your postwedding, hungover, hot-mess self. Maybe they can use it to scrape your fake eyelashes off the countertop. Tulle is particularly effective for this.

  2. Try to return it and get your moolah back. Macy’s has an exceptional return policy. I once returned a bridesmaid dress I bought there, with three coupons, and wore for only eight hours at a wedding—though after reading this, they’ll probably ban me from returning bridesmaid dresses with the tags ripped off and the bottom looking as if it came in contact with a shredder.

  3. Related to point 1, use them as rags around the house. My mom used to do this with old T-shirts that I grew out of (or stained with mustard and was no longer allowed to wear in public). Cut them up into large squares, and use them to dust your dresser or lift freshly spilled wine from
your carpet.

  4. Sew them into a tablecloth or curtains for your living room. I’m not that crafty, but there are YouTube videos about this, as well as grandmas, somewhere, who can help you cut and paste it together. (And no, I’m not talking about on a computer.)

  5. Stuff them into the very back of your closet, where the spider webs and cockroach traps live. Have them snuggle beside your high school jeans that fit you like capri pants now. Let them nudge themselves next to your winter boots and pizza-stained snuggie.

  6. Give them to the homeless guy who sleeps outside your apartment building. If he stacks them on top of each other, they can form a pretty heavy and well-insulated blanket. You know because after wearing one for eight hours, you got a heat rash on your inner thighs.

  7. Never pick them up from the dry cleaners. This may happen without premeditation, and if it does, know that the dresses will eventually go off to live a better life in some faraway land. The place I used to go to get business suits dry-cleaned (when I briefly wore business suits) told me that clothes left there after ninety days get shipped to a family in Guatemala. I hope the family enjoys the two Ann Taylor Loft clearance rack skirts, neon pink blazer from Forever 21, and three bridesmaid dresses I purposely decided never to go back for.

  8. Keep the dresses and stubbornly find a way, a place, and an occasion to wear them again because you can’t afford not to: all of your assets are tied up in these one-time party garments.

  9. Mail it back to the bride and ask her to walk a mile in the bridesmaid dress she picked out for you to wear.

  10. Mail the dress to someone random. Everyone loves getting stuff in the mail! Box up the dress and add a note that says, “One single girl’s trash is another single girl’s treasure.” Google Map a random location, and let FedEx do the rest.

  11. Twist it up and stick it in an empty wine bottle. Send it off to sea.

  12. Use it as a Christmas tree skirt. Or if you’re Jewish, use it as a tarplike tablecloth to place your latkes and applesauce on.

  13. Wear it to book club.

  14. Regift it, back to the bride, as her thirtieth birthday present.

  15. Use it as a gift for a grab bag, secret Santa, or white elephant exchange. Who knows, maybe someone in the room would prefer to take home yards of chiffon over a candle that smells like cinnamon and Lysol.

  16. Wear it to another wedding, but check with that bride first. Make sure the dress is not identical to the one the other bridesmaids are wearing, or even the same style and color. Nobody wants to be the third-wheel bridesmaid, just like nobody wants to be Teresa instead of Barbie. This is a real fear of mine. My doctor claims this is the main source of my sleep apnea.

  17. Wear it on a first date. It will be one way for you to show the guy that you’re not looking to be his holler-back girl. You are looking for a fully committed, steady relationship that will one day lead the two of you to frolic down an aisle together. Actually, don’t wear it on a first date. Maybe save it for a third date when the rest of your crazy crawls out.

  18. Wear it to Thanksgiving dinner to dissuade people from asking about your dating life, especially the aunt who loves making “always a bridesmaid!” jokes as you pour gravy over everything.

  19. Make it the centerpiece of your Halloween costume. Zombie bridesmaid, anyone?

  20. Forget about it. Really, just forget that it exists, like an ex-boyfriend who blocked you on Facebook and told you to never text him at 4:00 a.m. again when you’re out dancing with your friends on the Lower East Side. Forget it as you pack up and leave the hotel. Forget it as you’re going through airport security. Forget it in the trunk of the rental car, as it snuggles up beside the spare tire. Forget it. Just try to forget that it exists.

  chapter sixteen

  Those Who Will Remain Nameless

  My doorman, Jimmy, calls me Kimmy.

  He’s been doing that for over three years now. Well, actually, the first year he didn’t call me anything; we just exchanged repetitive hellos followed by routine good-byes, simple quick waves as I moved on and he stayed behind. Eventually our relationship got to the next level, and we started having conversations that lasted the length of a burning sparkler and eventually dragged on to the length of a slow-burning cigar.

  It was less about what I told him, and more about what he saw that fostered our relationship. He witnessed things that I didn’t want to sum up in 140 characters and post on Twitter, or snap with my iPhone and color-correct with a filter or two on Instagram. They were little things, like how I would walk in circles around the apartment building every night at exactly 7:35 p.m., how I waited to close my umbrella until I was halfway into the lobby, or how I would eat only the right side of my pizza crust, the side my fingers didn’t touch, and throw away the other half. But also heavy-hitting things, like the time the first guy I ever loved told me, right outside the entrance to my building, that he didn’t love me anymore. My doorman watched me cry and pace and pivot, take baby steps back into the lobby, run back outside and toss my cell phone into a thorny rose bush, and retrieve it two days later when he left it for me at the front desk.

  Since that moment, Jimmy started regulating my online dating life, offline. If I came home past 10:00 p.m. on any given evening, I had to report my whereabouts, my findings, and my discoveries to him, like a modern-day Christopher Columbus going through customs in Murray Hill. It was as if my Jewish mother had transplanted herself into the body of a forty-five-year-old Irish man dressed in a black and white polyester waistcoat and a magician-like top hat, greeting me with a list of first-date questions, like, “Who was he?” and, “What do his parents do?” and, “Why didn’t he hail you a cab after you stuffed your faces with half-priced oysters (which you had to pay for)?”

  Jimmy and I even hugged once. When my taxi pulled up to the curb in front of my building after I’d been gone for a two-week vacation in Florida, I fell right into his arms, embraced by his welcome home smile.

  And then one day he started calling me Kimmy.

  “Good morning, Kimmy,” he rattled off to me a year and a half into our nameless, yet very steady, relationship. I kept on walking because my name is not Kimmy and I figured he must have been talking to some other resident while looking directly at me. Maybe his glasses were just a little foggy from the Arctic tundra–like winds of that particular winter. Maybe he thought I was the messy-haired blonde girl with perpetually wrinkled T-shirts who lived in 29B. (Easy mistake to make.) I’ll let this one slide, I thought to myself, and kept walking toward Third Avenue. It’s quite impressive what we convince ourselves of when we can’t accept the obvious.

  But as I rounded the block, I heard him call out again and again: “Kimmy? Kimmy?” He knew my name was Jen. I had told him that! Well, now that I think about it, I never told him that. I never told him my name.

  It’s not that weird, is it? We spend years in relationships with people and we don’t even know their phone numbers. We type their digits in our phones one time and let Siri do the recall whenever we want to give them a ring. Sometimes we even have joint bank accounts with these people! Share a queen-sized bed with their bodies! Bring them home with us for the family’s Passover seder! Yet we wouldn’t even be able to call them if we lost our phone or if by chance found ourselves in the slammer. So is it really that weird, in this day and age, that I’m in a long-term, strictly platonic, nameless relationship with my doorman?

  “Kim?” he said, this time abbreviating the name, as if he had said it many times before, as if my sudden silent treatment was breaking his heart. “What’s up with you today?”

  I paused in my steps and craned my neck around, my back still facing him, fully realizing that there were no other humans, or even animals, within a 100-foot radius of us. He was talking to me and only me. I was Kimmy.

  Now, in that moment, I had two very clear and distinct choices. I could walk up to him and ask who the heck Kim was and why he was calling me that. I could show him my driver’s license, or r
un upstairs and pull out my birth certificate from the linen closet (where one stores all important documents and snacks valued over ten dollars), and show him that my proud parents named me Jennifer Sara Glantz, and if we want to get into the finer details, my mensch of a rabbi blessed me with the Hebrew name Yaffa when I was two. Neither name sounds remotely like “Kim.”

  Or I could just take on this brand-new identity for the rest of my rent-paying days in this overpriced midtown apartment building and be done with it.

  That year, I signed my Christmas card “From Kim” with a blue Sharpie and squiggly hearts. “Happy Holidays to my favorite doorman, Jimmy.”

  I didn’t tell anyone at first about our little name game situation. I hoped, for a while, that maybe I was hearing things. I even tried saying “Kim” so many times out loud, to myself, behind closed doors, that it started to sound just like “Jen.” We do the most insane things for the people we care about when we don’t want to hurt them.

  Kerri had an intervention with me about this one afternoon. We were walking into our building with bags of groceries strapped to our shoulders and our forearms, like Manhattan-dwelling sherpas.

  “You know he calls you Kimmy, right?” she asked, disturbed and concerned.

  I laughed and waved the comment away with a dismissive flick of my hand. As if I hadn’t heard him call me Kimmy 178 times before.

  I didn’t want to believe it was true. We were rolling into our third year of living there, and Jimmy had become the closest thing I had to a neighborhood best friend, an on-call therapist, a protector of my most intimate and precious secrets. When I started snapping back into reality, realizing that other people could hear him call me Kimmy, I would stop friends and family prematurely in their tracks and body-slam them into the side of my building.