There is a strangely dark, self-aggrandising pleasure in telling people I’ve been a bridesmaid eight times. The mixed look of horror and respect for my selflessness very much reflects my own feelings on the subject. Being a bridesmaid is an act of stoic sacrifice, where you bury your feelings and opinions in the name of friendship or familial obligation.
This is not easy. Take it from a veteran. Brides are dangerous creatures. Decisions that come from a brain deranged with malnutrition/obsessed with things like napkins can be erratic and alarming at best. “I want you to wear this!” they say, detailing the most unflattering dress known to humankind. “You’ll have your hair like this!” they’ll then say, describing something that will either make you look like you’re 12 or 112. “And these shoes!” pointing at terrible shoes that you hate. “I love them!” you say, “I love all of it!”
Then they wrestle you into the bad dress and the worse shoes and you get paraded up the aisle behind the angel-bride from heaven and you feel like kind of an arse, but that’s only fleeting, because if you are me, you are probably VERY drunk because they’ve been giving you champagne since 9am. Men like a bridesmaid. They don’t care that you look like a massive child, but they rarely get past the 25 covered buttons, I have found.
Suffice to say, I’ve done my time, bridesmaid-wise. The last time I was asked, I just said no. The bride didn’t really care. She just held up two napkins and said, “Which one do you like best?”