Woosh. Weddings. My amazing, beautiful sister is getting married next year. And I’m thrilled to be her matron of honor. My writing software indicates that matron is perhaps not the nicest word and wants me to change it to director of nursing. Google defines it as “a dignified, middle-aged married woman, often associated with a position of authority or responsibility, particularly in domestic or institutional settings.” Webster is a little nicer and leaves out the ‘middle-aged’ part. Not that, for me personally, it isn’t true. I’m pretty good at cleaning, too. But I don’t recommend my cooking, and no one has ever called me dignified. So, it’s a toss – up whether I meet the requirements.
As with most sister’s we are very different. I’m nerdy, weird, and all of my hobbies include the indoors and sitting. My sister is athletic, social, and runs…outdoors. I assume that’s how people get murdered and/or end up with tetanus. We also have an 11-year age gap and technically belong to different societal generations. I had Clarissa Explains It All; she had Hannah Montana. But we have one of those awesome sister bonds we casually refer to as sister club.
While my sister is deciding all the major aspects of her wedding, I’m there to provide comedic relief and ensure the truly important things get discussed. I assume this is the real Matron of Honor duty. Sure, you picked a stunning venue with excellent food, but who are we assigning to make sure some of the best cookies get set aside? By the time I got to the cookie table at my wedding, all the buckeyes were gone, and I was devastated. (For those unfamiliar, cookie tables are a must-have in our area. Usually, there are several banquet tables filled with cookies. I recommend them for all weddings, no matter where you live.)
And of course my fashion sense is trash, so you’d think I wouldn’t be helpful when wedding dress shopping. And I wasn’t. But I was there for support. One place gave us champagne, and I think the idea was that if we got drunk, we wouldn’t look at the prices. I’m not so easily tricked. It just made me gasp in shock a little louder as I looked at a piece of plain-ass tulle glued to a clip with a $900 price tag on it. Wtf? I’m crafty too, bridal stores. I can rhinestone shit. This thing was plain! We did not purchase that. How could we after I’d insulted it for 5 minutes?
Then there were the sleeves. Some dresses have sleeves. This is nothing new. When I got married a brief 16 years ago, they came with the dress. Times have changed, my friends. Now you have to buy them as an add-on item. My personal favorite were the puff sleeves. Stand-alone circles of satin that looked like bulbous tumors sticking out of my sister’s forearm. I could not hold back a giggle when she walked into the room with them. If looks could kill.
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But while my sense of style was questionable and my sense of decorum abysmal, I think I brought some important perspective to the appointments. Because when you get married, you want to look like a princess. But a hot princess. Frankly, the woman trying on dresses next to us desperately needed someone willing to tell it to her straight. Because she put this stunner on, and her boobs looked on. Freaking. Point. She knew it; I knew it; everyone knew it. But no one said anything. The next thing they put her in was this wild crochet turtleneck. I didn’t understand.
Mystery bride, I don’t know you, but I was the creepy lady in the other room commenting on how you looked hella hot in that first dress because I was bored while my sister was getting dressed and I need constant entertainment. I hope you found something stunning. The crocheted thing looked nice too. Also, my sister yelled at me for being creepy. Repeatedly.
After several shops, but only one glass of mid-champagne (mostly because I like trash champagne), she found the one. Everyone cried, except me. Though I’ll concede my eyes may have watered slightly. I dread trying to keep that thing from ruin on the big day, but it’s both elegant and something she’ll look back on and say, “Damn, I was hot, and still am with my bad ass 80-year-old self.” Maybe that last part is more me than her. Don’t ask any questions about the dress, though. My future BIL might be lurking…but almost certainly is not. He’s crafty, though. You never know.
Donna is an author and engineer with 15 years of IT experience and a lifetime love of literature and cinema, especially horror. She has written a paranormal Holiday novel, What Creatures Are Stirring. She holds and Electrical Engineering Degree from the University of Pittsburgh and an MBA from Western Governor’s University. Donna is passionate about reading and the importance of access to books. She loves writing about her favorite books and movies and sharing it with her readers.
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