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want to talk to me about sex. If I weren’t related to them, I’d have taken bets on Spanglish Tourette’s syndrome.
     
    “Yeah, okay, whatever you want.” I decided to be accommodating. Certainly, my cousin already had to manage a handsome share of “this wedding is about me” demands.

    “Ugh, thank you,” she exhaled. “You have no idea how impossible everyone is being about the simplest things.”

    I had more than an idea—I had an inexhaustible memory.

     

    BEFORE THE INVITATIONS TO MY WEDDING HIT THE printer, announcing our marriage on August 28, 1999, Gabe panicked, using the words, “not ready yet.” To this day, my unworn wedding gown hangs in a thick plastic garment bag, in a basement, appropriately enough where everyone stores their pasts. Lucky for my cousin—because she enslaved me to the stately position of bridesmaid, I was forced to wear the appropriated dress for the job and could not wear my white wedding gown as a nod to her “something new.” Okay, not that I would. No one ever has an occasion to wear her formal wedding dress again, even if it has never been worn. So now, the only one left to insult was Electra’s mother, my aunt, who would later lecture, “You and Lea should have had the dresses altered with my girl. It’s a bridesmaid dress, not a bachelor party.” I didn’t give a gnat. I wasn’t about to schlep to Long Island just to use her “girl.” Who the hell even says that? And last I checked, Manhattan was known to have some stuff. You know, like a fashion district and directories of A-list clothing geniuses.
     
    I convinced Lea to haul her bridesmaid dress into the city with promises of a free meal, a sleepover chick-flick fest, and an unadulterated make-out session with my dog. She wants to violate the laws of nature with Linus.

    “I’m serious, Steph. We’re talkin’ the big bad vows, and I claim him now,” she cautioned as she wiggled free from her sweat-soaked clothes at a midtown dressmaker’s studio. “I have dibs. When the laws change, that little nugget is mine to have and to hold.”

    “Yes, dear. Can you zip this atrocity of a top for me, please?” We were crammed in an airless, makeshift dressing room composed of a curtain and exposed brick wall.

    “You think I’m kidding. I’m going on eBay later and ordering him the doggie bowtie and top hat in preparation. God, I wish I could marry him.”

    I was wearing my way-too-tight navy pants, trying to stretch them out for their eventual date debut. There wasn’t room for panties in there, even my slingshots, so I warned Lea, “I’m nekked in Tahiti down there, so watch out for my red fire-crotch.”

    “Please, more like firecracker. That thing looks like a dog treat.”

    “Ew, stop looking!”

    “Whatever, mine’s a burning bush. Boys can hear the voice of God in there. Go ahead, make a wish!” She cackled.
     
    I wished I didn’t have to be a bridesmaid. The problem wasn’t really the ill-fitting dress. It was me. I needed alterations. I’d already done this, been the bridesmaid and the bride. Walking down an aisle felt like walking backward. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. So what if I looked like a chunk? No one was going to be looking at the back fat that would protrude from my top as I ambled down her aisle. This was Electra’s day. Not everything had to be about Stephanie and her broad-beamed bod. What was wrong with me?

    I’ll tell you precisely what was wrong: when you look like shit it quickly becomes all about you. Bridesmaids complain for a reason, and it has so little to do with taffeta and everything to do with demure. Bridesmaid dresses might be garish but, I assure you, they’re always prudish. It was a Saturday evening in late June. The rest of the guests would be grandstanding their go-go calves and cleavages. The last thing I wanted to be wearing was a yellow floor-length gown named “Provenance Squash” with nary a breast in sight. I looked like an