Say Yes to the Mess

I’m sure you have seen the movie 27 Dresses. I’m sure you laughed and cried and cheered for whats-her-face (who looks completely flawless even when she’s supposed to be crying, or caught in the rain, or really just any moment where she’s supposed to be ugly) when she finally finds love. It’s a very real concept, there are lots of whats-her-faces out there like me, but unlike 27 Dresses girl, we don’t find love. And, half the time…we don’t even get deemed good enough for the label of bridesmaid.

And I’m sorry, but it’s demented to actually keep all of the dresses.

But nevermind that. Before I go into the story of this wedding, let me back it up a little.

I go through this same ritual at every wedding. I sit on another shuttle bus to another overly-priced, albeit beautiful, venue and I start to observe and judge every detail of the wedding and its guests. It’s horrible, and I know that. I pick at these details like a scab. And like a scab, my brain just cannot leave it alone. It’s like a coping mechanism when you haven’t gotten to the part of the wedding yet where you’re drinking enough prepaid, watered-down vodka sodas to trick yourself into thinking Yes, this is how I wanted to spend my Saturday evening.

Maggie’s elbow nudges me out of my fog. I look at her and she lifts her eyebrows and indicates with her nose toward the scratched up bus window I’m leaned against. I lift my head and see the venue start to slide into view. It’s been raining the whole day (so at least I’m not wasting too good of a Saturday right?) and my head is pressed against the cool pane of the window, trying to keep myself from becoming car sick as the bus sways and bumps along towards the reception.

The sun is just starting to bleed golden light into the black of the heavy rain clouds surrounding it, and it's beginning to set. A few rays jab through the angry bellies of the clouds and land on the grape vines below. The vineyards sprawl in perfect rows along the venue, and some of the fat wet leaves begin to shimmer gratefully as the sun reaches down to them. The endless rows skip by as we close in toward the white refurbished farmhouse. Some of the staff are starting to filter between the twisted oaks around the farmhouse, switching on twinkling lights and drying chairs as we approach. I nod in acknowledgement of Maggie’s nudge. She’s my plus one tonight, and I really think I would die if she didn’t come to these with me. Not like a Paris Hilton “oh my god I would just die” kind of way but like truly drink myself into oblivion if I was at another wedding without her.

Maggie and I have been best friends since freshman year of college. Long story short (since it’s not Maggie’s and my wedding you came here to listen to):

1. We met in our freshman dorm hall when Mags tried to steal my boyfriend

2. He loved two girls fighting over him

3. It disgusted us both how much he was enjoying this

4. I broke up with him

5. Maggie started ignoring him too

6. We’ve been best friends ever since

We’ve been there for each other through everything. I’ve lost two dogs and one brother, she’s lost one parent, and we’ve collectively survived seven awful relationships and at least sixteen friends’ weddings. So yeah, you can say we’ve trauma bonded at this point.

As the bus locks the shifter into park, we start to shuffle out of our seats, running a hand down our dresses to make sure nothing is caught, checking our seats for anything that’s fallen out of our bags, and grabbing our little Poland Spring bottles relabeled “Jesse and Amanda, Est. 2025” that the overly joyful bus driver handed us when we loaded up earlier.

Mags puts her cold hands on my shoulders like I’m her guide dog as we step down the steep bus stairs and onto the manicured garden path entrance. The bride’s family is already standing at the front door of the venue in tuxedos and matching dresses. They’re kissing their hellos like they stepped out of a 60s movie, forgetting just for tonight that they’re just ordinary people from Long Island and that being the bride’s relatives does not make you more important than the rest of us.

Although yes, they did get a limo and the rest of us came in a fuzzy coach bus that smelled faintly of soccer cleats.

So maybe they are more important than us after all?

Jury’s still out.

Anyway, Maggie and I get right to work picking out the cutest men we can. We try to aim for no ring on their finger (but you now know Maggie’s history in this department started young, and so you’ve probably guessed that she’s not always looking for the ring as hard as I am). We step into the venue and gaze up at the pitched cathedral ceiling in the lobby. It’s truly a lovely place. The skylights pitch upwards and streams of rain race down the panes of glass. The lights inside are warm and inviting, and they twinkle as they hang from sheer tapestries pinned to the tall ceilings. The original stone along the walls give a rustic, chilly countryside feel. Stepping in here makes you feel like you just stumbled inside after a snowy day and want to strip out of your wet clothes and cozy up to a warm fireplace. As much as I hate being a wedding guest, I love getting to be in these gorgeous venues. I studied architecture in college and have worked at firms all around New York, and nothing makes me melt into a puddle like a well-thought out space. I love that kind of space where no one noticed the details but knows that their mood lightened when they stepped inside and they just can’t put a finger on why.

A few of our college friends wave us over to their table at the cocktail hour. We are all serial wedding guests at this point, and quite a few have been brides too, but we’re all conspirators against the couple when we attend someone else’s wedding, whether we’ve been in their shoes or not. (Although, we do all have to swallow past that cry-golf-ball in our throat during the vows… even heartless ol’ me is defenseless against that one). The girls all stand around, pecking ar hors d'oeuvres off of their boyfriends’ or husbands’ plates. They sip at whites and reds, gossiping and flushed, while their husbands pick at Heineken labels and discreetly check their watches. Jackie’s husband lightens up when he sees me.

“Rachel! I was waiting for you to get here!”

I throw a look over my shoulder and back at Connor. Me? I mean Connor’s a nice guy but we are friends to the extent that you’re friends with anyone who you’ve drank with at college parties, attended weddings and once-a-year friend gatherings with, and whose phone number you don’t have. I like Connor and he’s a fun guy, but if a gun was to my head and someone asked me what kind of car he drove or if he hates cats, I would probably be dead.

“Nice to see you too, Connor what’s up?” I smile and pluck a Pinot Noir off the tray of a passing waiter.

“Well you know I love a good audiobook and podcast…” he says as he throws me a knowing glance. I smile blandly back at him, because, as I mentioned - nope - I do not know this or much else about the inner workings and thoughts of Connor Radcliff.

“...and I was getting bored of my usual podcasts when I clicked the ‘Surprise Me’ button. Lo and behold I’m listening to a chick podcast where this girl is absolutely ripping into her friends’ weddings. It was funny as hell. It’s like every guy’s brain but from the eyes of someone who is actually supposed to appreciate and enjoy this crap.”

My left ear starts to heat where Maggie’s knowing stare is lasered into me. I genuinely think I can smell singed hair at this point where she’s burning holes into the side of my head.

“And then I was like, yo, I know this voice.” Connor continues, “This is Rachel Waters absolutely destroying all of these weddings. And it’s actually really funny.”

My vision is starting to tunnel in panic. And to be real with you, I don’t appreciate how surprised Connor is that he finds me funny.

I’m gripping the stem of my wine glass so hard I need to press it into the table so no one sees it start to tremble. Our friends around us have started to go quiet as Connor’s laugh increases the volume of the conversation. The girls slowly set down their wine glasses as their jaws begin to slacken in disbelief.

“Rachel...” Jackie drags the two syllables like she’s about to tie them up and hang them in the gallows. “Say Yes to the Mess. For the love of all things holy, please tell me that is not your podcast.”

I start to open my mouth, but Tricia cuts in. “Oh my God, what the hell Rachel. That is your voice.” Her voice starts to get shrill and she gasps “No.. no no no, you were at our wedding. You… you were at all of our weddings. Are we an episode?” She ejects the last word like it rotted in her mouth, “Rachel. Millions of people listen to that podcast!” she shrieks.

Tricia has gotten loud enough that the cocktail tables around us have started glancing and whispering in our direction. Any alcohol in my veins so far has frozen in place and stopped in its tracks on its way to my brain. My mouth is so dry I can’t find my voice.

I know how many listeners I have, Tricia does not need to remind me. I just watch the train wreck happen in slow motion as realization spreads across my friends’ faces.

“It… it started as a way to get through wedding season…” My voice sounds so meek and pathetic as it struggles its way out of my throat. “I just…”

“You used us as a joke Rachel. Are you here for research right now?” Jackie spits the words like venom across the tablecloth. I glance down at my drink and the girls scoff at me collectively.

Okay so let’s take a quick pause.

Have I been going to weddings I’m invited to out of guilt, and then started picking these weddings apart in multi-episode series for the last two years?

Yes. Yes I have.

Do I feel bad about it? I mean kind of… no, not really. I feel shameful right now but I’m not going to lie, I don’t think what I’m doing is wrong. These are the kinds of stories people tell to their mom when they get home from their friend’s wedding over a glass of chilled wine in the kitchenette. And I just decided to tell these stories into a microphone in my living room and post it on Spotify instead. Is that so wrong?

Okay, so maybe it’s not something I should be doing but I am good at it. Listen, my family is Irish. This means I was born with the Gift of Gab and a persistent cynicism of love and all things good. Sunny weather? Won’t last long. True love? Divorce lawyers are busy for a reason.

I chance a quick look over at Maggie. She’s standing on the other side of the table, white-knuckling her appetizer plate like a steering wheel in a thunderstorm and giving me the this-isn’t-what-I-signed-up-for-as-your-plus-one look.

The worst part is that all I can think of in this moment is: This is not good… but this content is going to hit on my channel.