Jen drives like a mad woman.
Leaving my car behind at the bridal boutique, I carpool with her to have my hands free for frantic phone calls. I worry about baby Glenn in the backseat as we careen around corners, but he just squeals with delight. Clearly he’s used to this.
When I call, Bridget has just finished her errands and is only a few miles from my apartment. She offers to run over there with her spare key to pick up my dress, shoes, and the box of lights. Another phone call and Delia is plugging a spare curling iron into the bathroom outlet at Mom’s house and standing by with makeup.
“They’re at the florist down the block from Mom’s, right?” Jen asks. When I look at her blankly, she clarifies, “The boutonnieres?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I’d forgotten all about the dumb boutonnieres. “I’ll have to get them after the party. Except the shop closes early tonight. I’ll just have to pick them up tomorrow. Except I’m not sure when they get into the shop on Thursdays—”
Jen waves me off. “We’ll get them on the way.”
“Jen, the thing starts in twelve minutes, and I still have to get ready. There’s no way we can—”
Roughly three minutes later we’re screaming into a parking space in front of the florist (a ride I’m certain took a solid ten minutes every other time I drove it). Glenn is giggling in his car seat, and my legs wobble beneath me as I fall out the car door and stagger inside.
This shop is owned by a cute elderly couple—Maude and Ernie—who have been in business here for something like forty years. I loved the undivided attention they gave when I came to pick out arrangements. Now I’m wishing they were less friendly as they beam at me from behind the counter.
“If it isn’t our favorite bride!” Ernie gushes as I hurry in.
“And how are you, lovely Jacklyn?” Maude asks, eyes twinkling. “How are the wedding plans coming? What have you got left to finish? Are you feeling any pressure? Tell us all about it.”
They regard me with twin looks of total intent, like their greatest wish right now is for me to chat with them about my checklist for half an hour.
“I’m doing fine,” I say quickly. “Just fine. I just need my—”
“No extra exhaustion?” Ernie’s expression is concerned.
“Nope. Not too tired. I just need—”
“No dizzy spells?” This from Maude.
“Not dizzy, no. I need my—”
“What about stress hives? Oh.” Ernie looks at Maude. “Remember that poor bride that got those a few years back? Absolutely ruined her photographs. Such a shame.”
She’s nodding. “And the pink hives clashed with her colors—”
“No hives at all,” I put in, laughing a bit hysterically. “My skin is clear. I just really need to get my—”
“Just be sure your diet is steady for the next two days,” Maude tells me. “None of this fast-food nonsense. What you need is home-cooked meals. Plenty of veggies. Potatoes are especially hearty.”
“And oatmeal,” Ernie agrees. “You can never go wrong with a hot bowl of oatmeal.”
“Cream of wheat, even—”
“I’ll eat nothing but oatmeal potatoes, I promise! I’m just running late, and I really need to pick up my boutonnieres!” Feebly I brandish the claim ticket and add, “Please.”
They both look aghast at my eruption. But after several seconds Maude recovers. “Of course, dear. Just give me one moment.”
Claim ticket in hand, she shuffles into the stockroom, and I hear her rummaging around. After a solid two minutes her voice comes. “Ernie? Where did you put those boutonnieres?”
“In the first case, dear.”
“They’re not in the first case.”
“Maybe I moved them. I’ll come help you look.” Even more slowly than Maude, he shambles toward the door to the back. About halfway there he turns and scuffles back to the counter, patting the pockets of his cardigan and muttering, “Now where did I put those glasses?”
I drop my face into my hands on the counter in defeat.
When I hurtle out to the car a full six minutes after my entrance, Jen demands, “What happened? All you had to do was pick up a box!”
“Yeah, well, it helps when people haven’t lost their spectacles!” I grumble, strapping in.
Jen’s already squealing around the second corner. “Well, now we have roughly three minutes to get you there, dressed—”
“Hair done.”
“Yep. It’s going to be close.”
I swear the tires are smoking as we pull up to Mom and Dad’s house. The block is already lined with cars. Mom cordoned off a spot directly in front with a cardboard sign that reads, Reserved for the Bride! I want to hug her just for thinking of that.
“There are already people in there!” I’m regretting my decision to run out of the shop in my ridiculous getup. “I can’t go in looking like this. I’ll disgrace Mom forever.”
“You do look a little frightening,” Jen agrees. “But I have an idea.”
About forty-five seconds later she’s ushering me through the side door into the mudroom, wearing one of her husband’s oily coveralls and a filthy baseball hat he keeps in the trunk for when he works on his car.
The second we’re in the door I can hear laughter and conversation and smell Mom’s lemon-meringue pie. Still two minutes until the party actually starts, and there’s already a full gathering. “We’ll never get through,” I hiss to Jen as we approach the door that leads from the mudroom into the kitchen.
“Sure we will,” she whispers back. “I just have to unleash the secret weapon.”
“What secret weapon?”
She doesn’t respond, but when we reach the door she shoves me toward the kitchen and steps to the right entrance to the living room. Boosting Glenn over her head Lion King style, she asks, “Who wants to see a cute baby?”
A chorus of “Awww!” drifts from the living room as I hustle through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the shared bathroom.
Delia and Bridget, huddled behind the door, are startled at my sudden appearance.
“Oh!” Delia says, grabbing at her heart. “I thought you were a guy.”
“Just transfer camouflage,” I respond, stripping off the coveralls.
Once my actual clothing underneath is revealed, Bridget manages an “Oh, honey.”
“Yeah, I know.” I glance at the wall clock. “And we’ve got about a minute until the party starts. Help me! ”
Delia braids and pins my hair at the speed of light. “I get seven people ready for nine o’clock church,” she explains.
Bridget slips the dress on me from the bottom up so as not to disturb the hairdresser, forces heels onto my feet, and dusts blush onto my cheeks. I totter into the hallway a bit disheveled but present.
So at 5:01 p.m., I step into the living room and give a wave saying, “Hi, everyone.”
The group turns toward me, and Mom, the beaming hostess across the room cries, “It’s the bride!” to which they all cheer.
Validate. Validate.