I should preface this story by saying that I read some wedding stories on Etiquette Hell the other day, and I am not the worst bridesmaid ever. However, I liked my title, so deal with my hyperbole.

A dear friend of mine is getting married this July, and for some reason decided I could be trusted to be a Matron of Honor. While I am torn on the whole “Matron” issue between my newlywed thrill at the word and my fear that it describes my current physique all too well, I gladly accepted. I did, however, decide that I must make a superhuman effort to smooth her wedding-planning journey and to help her as much as possible. You see, as far as I’ve heard, one of the primary purposes of the Matron of Honor is to help the bride out pre- and intra- wedding—and while I would love to be of more direct help in this matter, she lives in DC, weds in Cleveland, and chose a MoH from soggy old Oregon.

I compiled a messy first draft of my advice to brides, based on my own experiences last July, and sent it off to her. Among the many tips, warnings, and imprecations, fluttered the following advice: “Nag your bridesmaids, early and often. There’s a lot of steps involved in them getting their outfits together, and it can be a major headache if anything gets procrastinated on. Of course, I know this, so you won’t have to worry about me!”

Why didn’t I just say “What could POSSIBLY go wrong?” instead?

I knew I should go get measured and order my dress. But it was in farthest Beaverton, and I was in Hillsboro at night, and Portland during the day, and between the two I was constrained by the rails of the MAX train. I was lazy. So finally I went in this last weekend.

To set the scene: David’s Bridal is, I suppose, the country’s largest bridal chain. I had never been to a bridal chain before, as for my wedding I had patronized a small local business where I got waited on and pampered and spoiled like a prize poodle. David’s Bridal was Large. A muzaked version of the Wedding March from Lohengrin segued awkwardly into muzaked Pachelbel’s Canon. Two girls in Nascar jackets pawed at the racks of white dresses.

I gathered up the bridesmaid separates in appropriate sizes and I tried them on. I chose out some dyeable shoes, and made my way to the cashier’s desk. Since this story is about my own shortcomings, not those of David’s Bridal, the least said the better.

At any rate, after I had paid for the items (and, I later discovered, not received the 15% discount for the Bride buying her dress from David’s as well), I insisted on an actual ETA for the dress. The saleslady discovered that it was an “8-week definite” item, and 8 weeks landed on the day after the wedding date I had given her. Fear gripped my heart, and I knew that I was a Bad Bridesmaid. Store models of two-pieces were for sizing only, even if they had been the same color, and not ripped and stained from the vagaries of the clientele. The brand was a David’s Bridal exclusive. They could not charge me more and rush it. It was an 8-week definite—which might mean 9 weeks. I would have scratched my head at that, but I was too busy loathing myself. I prepared to call the Bride, and inject into her life that vein of mad panic I remembered only too well.

Now, the Bride is a very reasonable girl, and if she felt that mad panic, she did not betray it. She wanted to get off the phone to ruminate over the possibility of a different dress (one-pieces are 6 week orders and store models are available for sale) and search the store’s website for such a dress. I found a pretty store model one-piece in my size and the right color, and sat grimly in a chair in the fishbowl section of the premises, prepared to defend the dress I held from any demented bridesmaid commandos that might desire it. Grimly I sat, and glumly. The minutes stretched on, helped by the excruciating music, and I gulped down guilt and fear. Perhaps she did not call because she was drafting my pink slip. Perhaps she would never be my friend again—both she and the groom would despise me forever. And don’t forget the music. By the time Celine Dion’s heart started going on and on the second time, I was pondering breaking one of the omnipresent mirrors and ending my pain Roman-style.

Finally she called, patted my guilt down to manageable size, and approved the dress I held in my hands. Of course I wasn’t going to risk the assumption that the right size would necessarily fit, at this point, so I flagged down a harried employee and got a dressing room and a strapless bra to try the dress on with.

Now some of you, I should hope, have never had to wear a strapless bra. There are pretty much two options; a normal-sized bra with elastic stronger than human flesh; and modern bustier. Bustiers engulf your entire midsection, and thus have the added benefit of taming any floppy tummy bits you may have. They’re great, if expensive (I had to have one for my wedding), and that’s what I had on hand. However, the “Tighter, Mammy, tighter!” schtick applies. They hook up the back - usually about 10 hook-and-eyes - and require quite a bit of pulling to hook in place. I was all alone. First, I tried to hook it up in front and slide it around. But, as I had suspected, this would have required disengaging my epidermis from my dermis to slide with it. So I put my shirt back on, and waited for a saleswoman to pass, suppressing my natural desire not to be anywhere near naked around a stranger. The woman who passed told me without explanation that she couldn’t do that, but so-and-so could, and she’d go get them.

So I waited. In preparation for near-exposure to strangers, I stationed myself with my back to the door and managed to heave one hook of the bustier shut behind my back. I waited. Now, mind, my watch is without batteries, so I could be wrong, but I believe I waited for almost 15 minutes. There were no mirrors inside the dressing room - yeah, I know - so I couldn’t even amuse myself by noticing new and exciting blemishes on my face and figure.

Eventually, with a muttered string of imprecations and blasphemies, I decided to try to put the blasted thing on myself.

Here’s where I atoned for being a bad person. The one hook I had hooked would invariably pop open the moment I attempted to hook another. I was pulling and swearing and probably turning purple with rage and frustration—again, no mirror. Imagine, if you will, the old Disney scene where Donald Duck is trying to keep the rascally beavers from destroying Old Sequoia. The beavers have gotten inside the tree, and are gleefully buzz-chewing it down, and Donald’s only recourse is to attempt to plug the holes from which the sawdust is flying. New ones immediately emerge, and eventually he ends up posed against the tree with several fingers and a toe plugging holes, and a new one spewing sawdust in his face. Now imagine, if you will, this scene occurring with bustier hooks as plugs, and my 5 extra pounds as the sawdust, and all the machinations occurring behind my back, with no mirror. Actually, don’t imagine it, I have my dignity, occasionally.

Finally I stood, red and panting, with great muscular aches in my arms, in the damn bustier. It was mostly hooked. Good enough. I reached for the spaghetti-strapped dress. The strap broke and the dress fell off the hanger.

In short, my friends, discharge your duties quickly. I do not know what impish gremlin beset me last Saturday, but he is not the type you want in your life or your wardrobe. Spare yourself.