I knew I was in trouble when she walked through the door.  Sipping my cappuccino, I gagged on the foam when I saw what Holly was carrying under her arm: a Bride’s magazine.  As she sauntered over, face brimming with glee, my mind was racing with thoughts like, “What happened to, ‘Will you stand up for me and Scott at our small ceremony?’ or ‘Since it’s my second marriage, I want to keep it simple.”  It had been many years since I read Bride’s magazine but my fuzzy recollections never included the words, “simple” and “small.” No, I was about to enter the world of “lavish,” extravagant” and worst of all, “bridesmaid.” The drawer that held my pink taffeta dresses, acid washed jeans and over-sized shoulder pads was once again being opened.  I was not happy.

Holly spied my uneaten Italian cheesecake. “Oh, that looks good.  I’ll order a piece for myself.”  As she plopped down that humongous magazine, I plopped down my fork shoving the slice towards her, “Here, eat it. I’m not hungry.”

As she chowed down, I cut to the chase, “Holly, what are you doing with Bride’s magazine?”  I injected a bit of a smirk for effect.  “You’re not thinking of wearing a traditional bridal gown, are you?”

She came up for air.

“Well, actually, I am.  You see, this is Scott’s first marriage and he’s always had this fantasy about lifting the veil of his bride at the altar.  He really wants to have a traditional ceremony.”  Scraping the plate of its last morsels of cheesecake, she continued, “Don’t worry, I’m just using the magazine for ideas.  His sister, Laura is sewing my wedding gown.”

I pride myself on being a good friend, but conjuring up enthusiasm for tulle and satin dresses at the age of thirty-nine was pushing all sorts of buttons in me.  As a “been there/done that New Yorker, I had to squelch my cynicism, at least for the moment.

There is no denying the glow Holly was emanating.  A native of Ohio, she looked like she sprung out of a wheat field.  With her flaxen hair and milky white skin, she was the embodiment of the Dairy Queen.

In fact, she was a “queen.”  While packing her things for her move into Scott’s apartment, she unearthed some old Forstoria, Ohio High School scrap-books.  There she was in her daisy printed dress, bedecked in crown and banner across her chest.  It read, “Queen of the May,” or something like that.  Gushing, Holly described her coronation as if it was yesterday.  I was straining for a hint of irony in her voice, but there was none.  As she handed me another scrap book, I blurted, “You know Holly; in high school, girls like me used to beat up girls like you.”

“Oh Vicki,” she giggled and without missing a beat, dumped her Junior Miss album on my lap for perusal.  At this point, you might wonder what Holly and I had in common.  Despite the difference in our backgrounds, we shared a love of theatre, books, and a natural curiosity about each other.  Her Thanksgiving with my family was tantamount to tickets to a Neil Simon comedy and she represented a part of Americana that I found bizarrely fascinating (but not enough to visit).

Holly was courageous.  When her marriage to a North Dakota based archeologist ended, she decided to apply to graduate schools in New York City.  Freshly divorced, she rented a U-Haul and arrived in Manhattan with a temporary place to stay and not much else.

As homespun as Holly was, she never failed to shock the hell out of me from time to time.  Over a pot of herbal tea, she nonchalantly let it be known that within a few months of arriving in New York, she had a relationship with a deli owner from Yemen.  Yemen!?

Considering my personal preference for foreigners, even I found Yemen a bit on the “exotic” side.

If that wasn’t offbeat enough, he eventually stalked her.  It seems that Holly found herself, like many graduate students, short on cash.  Since her Yemeni boyfriend had a primarily cash business, he was more than willing to lend her a few hundred dollars.  Holly could not pay him back and to make matters worse, decided to dump him.  That’s when the stalking began.  He even tracked down her poor mother in Ohio who, until receiving her first ominous phone call, had never heard of Yemen much less entertained the thought of a future son-in-law originating from there.

Holly was finally able to shake him off by moving uptown with an unlisted number.  However, the calls to her mother continued for some time.

When she met Scott, an Episcopal seminary student, she found a kindred spirit.  Raised in Upstate New York (which to a Manhattanite might as well be Wyoming), educated at Oberlin (hence, the Ohio connection), he was someone who shared her love for the hokey.

Which I guess is why I was so surprised when he too, decided to go for the royal wedding treatment.  In high school, Holly was Queen of the May; Scott was definitely Hall Monitor.

His reign of terror manifested itself when he intimated that it was my responsibility as maid of honor to organize a bridal shower.  His blatant arrogance ticked me off enough to challenge him.

“I don’t think you give a shower for a second marriage, Scott.  And don’t tell me that since it’s your first marriage, you’re entitled to a brand new toaster oven.”

Red-faced, he responded, “I just thought that since Holly’s first marriage was so long ago and no one in New York knew her then, it would be like a first time shower for her here.”

I caved, but not without some conditions.

“Listen Scott, since our friend Terry is the only one with an apartment big enough to have this thing, if she agrees, I think I can swing hors d’oeuvres and a cake.”

Grimacing, he ungraciously agreed.  My urge to slap the hayseed out of him was assuaged by the image I had of him walking down the aisle in a wedding gown reaching the altar and lifting his own veil screaming, “I finally got my wish.”

Thank God Terry agreed to have the shower at her place.  We picked a date and I set out to buy little umbrella-decorated invitations.  Yuck!

The nightmare continued.  The following months were a blur that included visits to bridal expos where a Waterford representative tried to convince us of the practicality of drinking our morning orange juice out of fine crystal goblets.  I was still clinging to my hope of wearing an elegant suit or dress of my choice, but alas, that was not to be.  Holly’s fashion statement definitely came out of confectionary catalog.  Not the total wimp, I made two demands; no crinolines and no hat, with the final compromise including a French braid and babies’ breath.  The saving grace was the fact that the church was cross the street from my apartment.  We settled on a mauve raw silk that for a Laura Ashley creation, wasn’t bad.  At least I didn’t look like a herd of sheep would be trailing me to the church.

Holly, on the other hand, was having her own problems with her seamstress/sister-in-law to be.  Since Laura lived hundreds of miles away, Holly had furnished her measurement via telephone and considering the fact that her nerves were causing her appetite to increase, I was afraid to tell Holly, another bolt of fabric might be in order.

Thankfully, the wedding day was sunny and dry.  The guy who French braided my hair sprayed enough lacquer in it to withstand a hurricane.  My dress and shoes matched perfectly and I actually had to admit to feeling some enthusiasm.

After all the tears and aggravation, Holly’s wedding gown turned out beautifully.  My next-door neighbor, Kathleen, a lawyer/color consultant, did Holly’s makeup and when she emerged from the church dressing room, she looked radiant.  Even Scott looked handsome in his tuxedo.

As we saw them off on their Disney World honeymoon, my friends and I made a run for the nearest bar.  We toasted the couple and I couldn’t help but add my own Martha Stewartism, “Elopement—it’s a good thing.”

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