Bridle Party

Another reason why my Maid of Honor experience has been a cakewalk so far is because SmartyPants is totally undemanding as far as what I have to wear and how I need to serve her. Whenever I ask her if she has any strong feelings about how I wear my hair, or what color shoes I wear, she always says, "Whatever you feel comfortable with, whatever looks good." Basically, if this wedding were the Vietnam War, I would be George Bush in the National Guard. "What about jewelry?" I asked.

"Well, I'm going to wear pearls," said the bride. "But you can wear whatever you like. Whatever looks good."

"Okay, so I was thinking some big hoochie mama hoop earrings."

"Actually, I was hoping you'd go for some hot pink feathers." She shouldn't joke; I live in Brooklyn. I can think of about three places to purchase hot pink feather earrings just off the top of my head and I wouldn't even need to take a subway.

The problem is, SmartyPants just is not cut out to be a bridezilla. Both she and the groom are very laid back about the wedding, not in the sense that they want to walk barefoot on the beach and exchange Ring Pops as wedding bands, they're not hippies for God's sake, but they not-so secretly confessed to me that the thing they are most looking forward to about their Big Day is when the whole damn thing is over and they can drive home together and stop for Boston Market on the Mass Pike. These are the kind of people we're dealing with here. The thing is, when you sign on to be a Maid of Honor, you're expecting a bit of masochism coming your way. In my case, it's like being dragged to a fetish club; perhaps you weren't looking forward to the spanking, but you can't help but feel a bit disappointed when your dominatrix has her iPod on and keeps checking her watch.

On Saturday afternoon, Smarty and I sat down at the Haymarket in Northampton, one of our old college hangouts, that everyone we know used to cleverly call the "Gaymarket."

"So, do you want to have a bachelorette party after the rehearsal dinner?" I asked my friend.

"Um, actually, I think I'd prefer to go home and go to bed."

"Okay, no problem," I said. "That saves me from having to bake a cake in the shape of a penis.
Well, what about a shower? I still want to do something for you." We had talked about doing something non-traditional with just a few of Smarty's girlfriends like a day at the beach or a tea party or a Broadway show or, um, another trip to the circus.

"I think I'd like to do something after the wedding. You know, to remind myself I still have a life and to have an excuse to get together after the wedding."

"Okay, well that's a good idea. And it certainly takes the time pressure off." Hmm, that about wraps up my wedding contributions. What do you say we go home, split a Valium and watch Mary Poppins?

I'm kidding. I know that I am very fortunate and I couldn't be happier but still I'm slightly concerned of the precedent we're setting here. I asked Smarty if she was going to carry a purse. "For what?" she asked.

"You know, stuff!" I said. I can't go anywhere without stuff.

"Well, I don't think so. I haven't really thought about it."

"I'll probably carry a small clutch," I said. "If you want, you can give me your stuff and I'll carry it around."

"I don't know," said Smarty. "That sounds kind of ... demeaning."

There was a pause as we looked at each other until I exploded, "That's the point! You are supposed to demean me! It is your day!" Because really, what does it mean to ask someone to be your Maid of Honor? You are saying, "You are a dear friend and I love you and I want you to share in this very special milestone with me but also na-na-boo-boo-in-your-face! because I have found the love of my life and you are still trolling for dudes on Friendster, even though you won't admit it. And also, this is for every time you ever upstaged me, every time the guy hit on you and not me, every award you won, joke you told at my expense, I was happy for you in those moments, but also, it hurt a little bit. So as your punishment you must stand next to me on my very special day with a smile plastered across your face. You must fluff my train and bustle me (whatever that means) and dance with my uncle and toast my eternal happiness and if you even think of getting plastered you will go down in history as the person who. ruined. my. wedding. and you will totally screw up your chances for making Godmother of my first born." Unfortunately, Smarty stopped buying those bridal magazines a long time ago and never got this memo.

Smartypants has spoiled me. No doubt the next wedding I'm in I will find myself squeezed into a strapless chartreuse number with contrast sash and matching three inch heels and the bride will have assigned me the very special task of babysitting her 103-year old great-grandmother. "Now we want Gee-Gaw to enjoy the chicken picata just like everyone else, but that will mean she'll probably need an enema around the time of the cake cutting ceremony. You don't mind, do you?" At which point my only option will be to choke down the words, "When Smarty got married..." and go to my happy place. But maybe this is all a big insurance policy on the part of Smartypants. Afterall, if I ever get married and ask Smarty to be my Maid of Honor it will make it very difficult to impose my reign of terror on her. "Would you mind bending over on all fours? We need to fit you for a saddle. We decided that in order to save money on a town car, you could give me a horsey ride to the church. What's that? Can we talk about this later? You need to open wide now for the bridle."