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One Black Bra, Two Brown Feet and a Wedding

by Scarlett Farr
7/26/2009 / Events

In the mailbox is an invitation. It is a wedding invitation. I rip it open. An invitation to my former employer's wedding. The wedding of the season. How wonderful. I will see my former co-workers. We were like a family. It will be a family reunion. Oh wait, the girls. The drop-dead gorgeous, single-digit size girls. My former employer never hired ugly girls.

Two weeks until the wedding. I have the perfect dress and shoes. I workout harder to tone my arms and shoulders. I bet the girls have gym memberships. Two weeks isn't long. Spray tanner goes on the grocery list. I bet the girls are naturally golden brown.

Three days before the wedding. I am curling my hair for work. The unthinkable happens. I lose my grip on the curling iron. My hair is still in the iron. It slams into my cheek. I snatch the iron out of my hair and off my face. I look in the mirror - nothing. Maybe it's not burnt. Of course it's burnt. I've burned myself a dozen times. I bet the girls never burn themselves.

The night before the wedding. I spray tan then hop into bed. The next day will be hectic. Errands to run, finger and toe nails to paint, an upper body workout. The wedding. The wonderful wedding where I'll see my old work family. I bet the girls have manicure appointments.

Three hours before the wedding. I need to shower. My finger nail polish is chipped. There's no time to redo it. I dry off and see my feet. What's that? Holy moly, they are copper colored. The spray tanner mist fell on the floor last night. I walked through it. The bottoms of my feet are spray-tanned . Oh no. The girls will see my feet. I buff them. Nothing happens. I Clorox them. Nothing happens. Emergency shoe change. I bet the girls never have copper feet.

Two hours before the wedding. I buff the chipped polish. I put on a new coat. Maybe it will work. It doesn't. Now I can't dry my hair until the polish dries. I turn the drier on my nails. An eternity passes. I look at the buffer. I look at the dried, dead skin on my burned cheek. Hmmm, I wonder... I bet the girls won't notice my burned cheek now.

An hour before the wedding. I look for the bra to wear under my pale halter dress. I can't find it. I look some more. Then I remember. I threw it away last summer. I try the dress without a bra. I take the dress off. I dig through the drawer again. I think maybe the bra crawled out of the trash and back into the drawer. It didn't. Aha, there's a black halter bra. I put it on. I put the dress on. I call my neighbor. We go outside. I stand in the sun. She can't see the black bra. I stand in the shade. Still no bra sighting. We go inside. I stand near a lamp. She swears she sees no bra. She's convincing. I bet the girls aren't even wearing bras.

I pull my dress up to adjust my slip. The fabric flies up. The dress smacks my lips. The lips I just covered in coral lipstick. The dress has lipstick on it. I scrub and scrub. The lipstick slightly fades. I bet the girls never get lipstick on their clothes.

The wedding is over. I am home. The bride was beautiful and the groom was handsome. Reuniting with old friends was so much fun. The girls were beautiful. They said I looked great too. I bet the girls don't know I'm neurotic.

Scarlett Farr lives with her husband, daughter and dog in Lizella, Georgia.

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