“I go online, and my breath catches in my chest
until I hear three little words: You’ve got mail.”
YOU’VE GOT MAIL (1998)
Weddings bring out the absolute worst in people. It’s supposed to be a time of love, celebration, and gathering with the people closest to you, but really it is a time when humans become the most berserk, selfish version of themselves all the while wearing rented clothes and dancing to “Shout.” By the end of the reception, someone’s Uncle Larry is shouting at you because his table was placed right next to a speaker that ruined his already-bad hearing. You’re trying to pat your pits dry while Uncle Larry’s inability to “get a little bit softer now” has you checking for the shuttle bus back to the hotel. While the ceremony and reception is a lot to handle, it’s the buildup to the special day that has me questioning humanity. If you’ve ever been part of a wedding party, specifically the bridal side, you know what I’m talking about.
I’ve had the (mis)fortune of being a part of four weddings during my short time here on earth. The first came when I was eighteen and brother number one was tying the knot. I shared best man duties, and my only real responsibility was showing up to the bachelor party, which consisted of a weekend in Vegas with the other groomsmen and the bridal party, as well as a woman nicknamed Gina Rails, whom I’m still not certain had any connection to the group. She received her moniker by taking her first name and putting it in front of the word rails, because she was known for proudly doing rails of cocaine at any given moment. Seeing a young woman on coke at a Vegas breakfast brunch buffet was a lot for my teenage eyes to handle. I’ll never forget “Killing Me Softly” playing over the loudspeaker and her shouting along while we were in line for heat-lamped scrambled eggs. An older gentleman was behind me and simply said, “She’s killing me loudly with that voice,” as he reached for a sausage link using the pancake tongs. An icon.
Brother number two’s wedding also found me in the best man position. This time I was in my midtwenties, and instead of a bachelor party weekend, we opted for one night out in downtown Cleveland. It wasn’t just the groomsmen who joined this party—it was also my dad and uncles, all of whom are married already, celebrating together at a strip club. Married people, in my experience, act one of two ways at a strip club. They either get WAY too into the dancers, dropping all their money in hopes that one of the women will magically decide to leave with them and start a new life, or the married guys awkwardly fumble around, doing their best to prove they have zero interest in the bubbies around them. For this occasion, we got a VIP table and a bunch of booze, and at this establishment, the dancers come to the VIP to try to coerce the men into getting a private dance, where they in turn earn more money. One of the gals asked my dad for a private show, and he falls into the awkward category. You see, Dad had become newly obsessed with his Nike FuelBand, which were all the rage at the time, so when the woman was flirtatiously questioning him about a special dance, he was checking his steps and telling her how his new gadget works. Their convo went something like this:
“Hi stud, do you want a private dance?”
“I’m kind of busy right now checking my fuel points. I did a long walk earlier, but I still need a few more steps. Might have to take a lap around this place. Do you know the circumference? Ya know what, don’t worry about it, I can measure it on my app. Why don’t you go ahead and ask one of these other guys.”
It’s a good thing he met my mother in the 1970s.
The young lady moved on to me, and I quickly told the stripper that although I respect her craft, the only sexual dancing I’m interested in seeing up close is the “I’m a Slave For U” choreography from Britney’s self-titled album (would’ve also settled for something from the Oops! I Did It Again era).
This one, singular night out was pretty much all I had to do for brother number two’s wedding. There was very little preplanning, no decorations or group texts. However, I came to find out a few years later that being in a bridal party is much different than being a groomsman. Bridal parties are fully deranged.
First of all, I don’t believe anyone wants to be in a bridal party. If you’re out there and you’re getting married or in the process of getting married, you can pretend your friends and family want to be in your wedding, but I’m here to tell you that they don’t. There are exceptions to every rule, of course, but you brides make your friends go through too many hoops in addition to just the bachelorette party. Plus, the bachelorette party is VERY different than a bachelor party. Straight men are happy to simply see some bare breasts and have a beer. Hell, gay men just need a male stripper dancing to “Pony” or Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” to be satisfied. But straight women require games, decorations, and hundreds of dollars of dick merch (dick straws, dick lollipops, dick balloons, dick-cetera…) before they’re ready to move on to the ceremony. It should be noted that it’s not just the bride who is troublesome; the entire group ends up being a mess. There’s always at least one person in the bridal party who is going to be the puker. They drink too much and throw up at every single wedding event. I’m talking vomit with the strippers, vomit at the engagement party, vomit at the rehearsal dinner. They’re the ones who refuse to eat on the wedding day and force the limo/party bus to pull over so they can upchuck on the way to the church. You offer them a handful of pretzels and a couple almonds, but they decline, only to hurl an inexplicable amount of champagne out the side of a limousine. Whenever a bride is late, I don’t even consider cold feet, I always just assume it’s because a girl named Brooke didn’t space out her champs and is making everyone wait for her to clean the sick off her dress with an old Tide pen someone tossed in their purse before leaving the hotel that morning.
In addition, the bridal party stuff is all SO expensive. I think parties are great, but weddings have gotten out of hand and the entire industry needs to be stopped. ENOUGH.
A couple years back, wedding number four was up and running: a friend was getting hitched and graciously asked me to be her “Man of Honor.” She is one of my all-time favorite people, and if it were literally anyone else, I would’ve said no, but I put on a smile and agreed to handle my business as a bestie because I love her more than almost anyone on the entire planet. While I had been in weddings before, this was my first time in the number one position on the bride side, so I had a lot to learn. The bride’s sister was kind enough to help with the organizing and other responsibilities, so together we planned a bachelorette weekend in New Orleans, and I ordered my outfit for the wedding photos. A couple weeks before we were all set to go to NOLA to celebrate, the pandemic hit. All the dick merch I bought was nonrefundable, but there were more important things happening in the world to worry about.
With the deadly pandemic in full effect, I expected no one in the wedding party to be concerned with the canceled bachelorette weekend, but I WAS WRONG. Emails continued to flood in those early days as no one was certain just how long life would be on lockdown. My boyfriend lost his job, I lost a lot of my work, just as many others around the world did, but the emails about wedding activities continued through it all. I didn’t even know if we would all safely make it out of 2020, so the last thing on my mind was wedding stuff.
The day my boyfriend lost his paycheck was the same day I lost one of my main paid gigs for the year. At night, an email came in from Patricia, one of the women from the bridal party, suggesting that we do something special for the bride and groom in lieu of the canceled weekend of bridal party fun in Louisiana.
“I hate that we are going to have to reschedule the bachelorette party! We should do something to cheer them up,” she wrote.
That’s a beautiful idea in theory, but remember I am broke at this point and barely hanging on to my sanity. I was locked in a tiny apartment with my unemployed significant other, binging RuPaul’s Drag Race as my hair grew to unspeakable lengths and I obsessively washed my hands every five seconds, wondering when I’d ever get to see my family again. I had an empty bank account and I WAS ON THE EDGE.
As I continued reading the email, I expected to see the suggestion of sending a nice card or a small floral arrangement, but instead Patricia suggested that we all buy the bride and groom a Peloton. A PELOTON BIKE! Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE those fancy exercise bikes with the screens attached, and as far as I’m concerned, instructor Cody Rigsby is a national hero, but these pieces of equipment are P-R-I-C-E-Y, and this woman was not suggesting we pitch in and get it in place of a wedding gift. No, no, we were still expected to do a bachelorette weekend once the country opened up, as well as the engagement gift, wedding gift, tux rental, etc. And don’t forget all those nonrefundable schlong straws. Peloton Patty was simply suggesting it as an additional gift, since the bride was inconvenienced in having to postpone the pre-party/bachelorette weekend because of the deadly pandemic that at this point had changed the course of history as we knew it. All the emotion I had been burying deep regarding the state of the world, the sadness of not being able to see my family, wondering how I was going to pay rent, and the uncertainty of our nation’s future came bubbling up to the surface as I read that message asking me to buy someone a Peloton.
I’ve never been a confrontational person. Ordinarily, I spend my days thinking about what I wish I would’ve said to someone who wronged me instead of actually saying any of those things. I win so many of the imaginary fights in my head, but they often stay there.
My brain was in overdrive and my hands were shaking as I clicked the reply button. I did my absolute best not to explode my anger onto the screen. I wished I had the strength to respond with exactly how I felt, but I bit my tongue. The email response I typed was polite, stating that I thought it was insensitive to ask me and the other people in the bridal party to chip in to buy a piece of exercise equipment for the bride when so many have lost their jobs and/or are dealing with illness and the general hell of 2020. Very kindly, I suggested that perhaps, maybe if anyone has any extra money, they could donate it to a worthy cause instead of pitching in for an exercise bike. Easy breezy. None of the snappy comebacks playing inside my head made it to the final draft, which I thought was a good thing… I was keeping the peace. Or so I thought. After I clicked send, I got another email, this time from a boss at a writing gig I had been hired for. They informed me that although I had already done a lot of work on the project, they wouldn’t be able to pay me. I snapped. I hopped on over to Twitter, where I voiced my actual frustration, like the petty Millennial I am, about the wedding. After all, I couldn’t vent about the job drama because I didn’t want to burn any professional bridges. Instead, I let my feelings about the exercise bike and the insanity of bridal parties ooze out of me for my entire timeline to ingest. Big mistake. Huge.
“The straights are CRAZY when it comes to weddings! Someone just asked me to buy a Peloton for a bride because the pandemic is causing them to reschedule the bachelorette party,” I tweeted. I continued into a thread of details, making sure to not include any specific names but dragging the events nonetheless. It wasn’t even the bike so much as all of my feelings being let out at once on something that it made sense for me to be mad about. It’s never about what it’s about.
The likes on Twitter started coming in fast and furious. Celebrities who follow me on social media were replying things like, “What the hell is wrong with people?” Every time someone hearted my tweets, I felt a validation that I wasn’t crazy for thinking it was a weird ask. I felt at peace. Briefly.
Less than five minutes from when I posted, I got a ding on my computer. A new email came in, this time from Peloton Patty’s boyfriend.
“Tweeting about my girlfriend is a dick move! She has a real job and all you do is tell jokes for a living,” he said.
I felt like Carrie Bradshaw when she got an instant message on her computer in Sex and the City. She ducked for cover, worrying that someone could see her. Keep in mind, I had never met either of these people in person, and I had no idea they even followed me on Twitter. I didn’t even understand how the boyfriend had my email address. Doesn’t matter, they were both pissed.
Before I could even catch my breath, the phone rang. It was the bride.
“Did you tweet something about Patricia asking you to buy a Peloton?” she asked in that shaky voice that makes me nervous.
“What? What are you talking about?” I replied, knowing exactly what she was talking about but trying to buy myself time to assess the severity of the situation. At this point I felt all my bowels lower.
“She’s crying right now, so upset. Can you delete the tweets?” she said.
And just like that, I became the doggone villain. A stranger asked me to collect all my coins to buy a bride a Peloton in the midst of the deadliest pandemic since 1918, and I was now feeling bad for saying how I felt to my close friends (Twitter).
I’ve been known to expunge my tweets a time or two. I consider the ones I anxiously delete within a few minutes of posting to be exclusives that are only available for a limited time. Of course, I ended up deleting these specific wedding tweets, but not because of Peloton Patty—I did it because my best friend asked me to and those are the rules. In the buildup to your friend’s wedding, you have to do whatever they want, no matter what.
In retrospect, I should’ve screenshotted the emails they sent and called them out by name on Twitter. That’s what social media is for. You voice your frustrations, which is what I was doing. It’s a Burn Book! Not only that, but that the boyfriend was so bossy and reduced my profession in saying that all I do is “tell jokes for a living.” Why was he even getting involved with bridal party drama? Doesn’t he watch The Real Housewives? The men should NEVER get in the mix. And why did that couple call the bride and groom about all this nonsense? There was no reason to stress them out, as they already had enough on their plate, what with their postponed wedding and the 2020 trauma we were all collectively going through.
The bride and groom canceled their big plans and instead did a small ceremony at a courthouse, and I never came face to face with my new archnemeses, Peloton Patty or her boyfriend. Part of me was relieved because seeing this couple that I had such a tense and awkward email exchange with would have been more than uncomfortable. The downside was that I didn’t get to see my best friend say “I do” to the man she loves. As cynical as I may be about weddings, I love seeing love (fingers crossed they still have a fondness for me after reading this chapter about the events that unfolded via email and social media).
They also ended up buying their own exercise bike in place of a honeymoon, and while I may simply tell jokes for a living, those strangers both followed me on Twitter without ever actually meeting me in person, so they must like at least some of my humor. I like to think that 2020 was making us all crazy and maybe I will someday see Peloton Patty and Bossy Boyfriend and we can laugh the whole experience off over cocktails. After all, how can any of us be held accountable for our words or actions throughout that hellscape? Or maybe they’re reading this book and hate me even more for continuing on this saga. Perhaps it all would’ve all been avoided if I acted more like Berger than I did Carrie in Sex and the City, by simply replying to that initial email with, “I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.” Or maybe if I would’ve just changed the subject like my dad did with that beautiful exotic dancer, I could’ve gone for a walk and got my steps in instead of getting tangled in online drama.