On the Rocks(28)
As I washed my hands I looked in the mirror to see exactly how much mascara had melted onto my face since leaving the house, when yet another bride-to-be exited a stall. She smoothed her T-shirt, readjusted her sash, and finger-combed her hair. Whoever had glued on her fake eyelashes didn’t have a steady hand. They were crooked and made her look like a psychotic drag queen. Oddly enough, it was obvious that she thought people were staring at her in awe or envy, but I knew that no one felt like pointing out that it looked like someone had glued shoe tassels to her eyelids. (We nonbrides were entitled to a little fun too.)
As her maid of honor approached her the bride proceeded to scream loudly enough to blow out my eardrum and scare another unsuspecting woman into dropping her purse on the sludge-covered floor.
“I’m getting married!” she yelled as they grasped hands and jumped up and down. I guess she figured she should make that announcement just in case her friend was confused as to why she was wearing a maid of honor T-shirt and a glow-in-the-dark dick necklace.
“I know!” (See, I knew she’d figure it out.) “In just a few weeks you’re going to be Mrs. Joseph DiLuca.”
“I’m so excited! I mean, I really love him, you know?” she said slowly, like she was trying to explain nuclear fission to her friend. “I do, I mean, when you know, you just like, know.”
“You guys make the best couple, you really do,” the friend gushed as she dabbed her lips with more gluelike gloss.
“Did you see that cute guy in the corner of the dance floor wearing the jeans and the royal blue shirt?” the bride asked as she gently elbowed her friend in the ribs.
“Yeah. He’s a total smoke show.”
“I’m going to ask him to dance with me. I saw him looking at me before, and it’s my bachelorette party, I’m allowed to have a little fun.”
“Oh totally, the actual wedding ring isn’t on your finger yet! Your bachelorette party is a get-out-of-jail-free weekend, everyone knows that.” The friend smoothed her shirt and winked.
I smoothed my dress and gagged.
“You’re the best friend ever,” the bride said as she hugged her friend to say thank-you for giving her permission to cheat on her fiancé. It was a good thing that they didn’t think that a bachelorette weekend meant you were free from all rules and regulations or they probably would have knocked over liquor stores and wreaked havoc on the great state of Rhode Island like a real live Thelma and Louise. I wondered how their “but everyone knows you can do whatever you want without repercussions as long as you’re wearing a bride sash” defense would go over in court.
It’d probably depend on how many married women were on the jury.
The bride pulled out of her friend’s drunken grasp and began to sing “Going to the Chapel” as she spun and twirled and knocked unsuspecting women into the walls. She spun again, but this time she tripped, flew forward, and smacked her head on the mirror over the sink. She screamed as she grabbed her head on impact. For a second, I was worried she’d cut her head or given herself a mild concussion.
“Oh my God, did I break my tiara?” she asked her friend in horror, as if there was no fate worse than being forced to suffer through the rest of the night without her bridal tiara.
Well, that answered that. This chick’s mental malfunction clearly started long before she head-butted a mirror.
“No, Missy, it’s totally fine, don’t worry.”
“Thank God, my whole night would have been ruined!”
She straightened her headpiece, and then, without batting a tarantula-esque eyelash, proceeded to projectile-vomit all over the floor, her platform espadrilles, and her mint green pedicure.
That Joey DiLuca is one lucky guy, I thought as I exited the ladies’ room and left the girl who no longer felt so lucky to be wearing that maid of honor T-shirt to clean up after the bride.
I wove in and out of the drunken people grinding each other on the dance floor, the guys looking to prey on any girl who had had one too many John Dalys, and the guys in the bachelor party who for some reason equated their drunkenness with how many buttons on their shirts they should undo, and ran for the street. I was about to hit the sidewalk when I heard Bobby call after me. “Where are you going? You can’t leave yet. You promised to talk to five people!” He caught up to me at the door.
“I did,” I lied. “I talked to lots of people. I just didn’t like any of them, and I didn’t want them to buy me a drink. I’ve had enough.”
“You talked to the two bouncers at the door, the bartender, and the gay guy who told you he liked your earrings. For the record, he wasn’t all that into you.”
“Shows how much you know,” I said smugly. “I also talked quite a bit to a cracked-out dude who thought I was a coke dealer. So there.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Bobby asked, unable to hide his amusement.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m going home. Have fun.”
I hit the sidewalk and walked away quickly, afraid that Bobby would chase after me and try to pressure me into staying. I crawled into bed twenty minutes later without bothering to wash the makeup off my face, trying to not let my first night out ruin my optimism about the dating project and my hope for a summer of personal growth. The bitch of it was, someone, somewhere, who incidentally was about to be cheated on, thought that that girl in the ladies’ room was marriage material, a girl worth spending the rest of his life with. I tried very hard not to focus on the fact that if this night was any indication, the only thing anyone thought I was good for was an eight ball of cocaine.