At 17, I’m asked by a friend two years my senior to a be a bridesmaid in her wedding, and despite having only recently gotten my braces off, I take it as a sign that I am a grown woman. My first official duty is to accompany her and the other bridesmaids to a nearby dress shop, where we spend several hours stepping in and out of black gowns for the bride to judge. She settles on a full length, strapless satin style with a miniature train that will follow us down the aisle.
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Freshly 18, I zip up the exact same style gown in the shade “pearl pink” —a color that does my pasty, Oregonian complexion no favors. The groom is ill in the days leading up to the wedding, and I dig my fingers into the stems of my bouquet as I watch him, mid vows, turn from his bride and vomit into his hands before running off stage.
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I am in my early twenties when I step into the third dress—a sensible navy sheath that hits at my knees. It is the only bridesmaid’s dress that does not make a liar of the bride when she says, “And you can totally wear it again!” My choice in shoes are a stylish mistake—blush wedges whose height give me legs for days, but cause me to walk down the aisle like a baby gazelle, unsure of each step. This is the first of what will prove to be many weddings where I lose a roommate to holy matrimony, and as the couple prepares to depart from the reception I cry so hard I give myself the hiccups.
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One week after dress number three, I shimmy into spanx for number four—an a-line, crochet knit dress the color of oatmeal, against which I’m assured the magenta peonies and blue hydrangeas in our bouquets will pop in photographs. The wedding takes place at the childhood home of the groom, and per his father’s request it is a dry affair. After being given a five minute warning from the coordinator, my walking partner—who in a previous life was my junior prom date—hurries me to his pickup, where we clandestinely take shots from a bottle of cheap whiskey that burn the whole way down.
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I am a college graduate by the time I don dress number five, made of black chiffon with a strapless sweetheart neckline. The bride is ten years my senior, a friend I made at my first real job out of school, yet I am decidedly less sure of my status as an adult at 24 than I was at 17.
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Dress six is heavy—a full length blush gown covered with beadwork and contrasting metallic sequins. This particular designer’s dresses usually run upward of $300, but I find mine on eBay, listed by some other professional bridesmaid in need of making a little money to fund her next assignment. After this wedding I wise up and start setting aside $20 from every paycheck to a budget line marked “bridesmaid,” regardless of whether or not there is a wedding marked in my calendar.
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I drive five hours north to central California to wear dress number seven, a floor length chiffon gown in a muted lavender the designer has named “dusk.” It’s on this trip that I forget to pack shoes other than for the wedding and rehearsal. I can be seen pumping gas on my return drive in a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and shiny blush wedges.
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I am both a bridesmaid and the officiant for this wedding, which requires several outfit changes throughout the day. I take pictures before the ceremony in the bridesmaid dress—a full length, black chiffon gown with a fitted bodice and deep v in the back. For the ceremony, I zip into my officiant uniform—a knee length black dress with long sleeves and a high neckline to appease everyone’s mothers. I walk down the aisle with the ceremony script in one hand, and my bridesmaid bouquet in the other, confusing everyone who sees me. Once I pronounce the couple husband and wife, it’s back into my bridesmaid dress for dinner and dancing. I am the Clark Kent of wedding attendants.
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I wear a sleek black jumpsuit with delicate spaghetti straps to the courthouse for these nuptials. I offer thanks to the wedding industrial complex gods for the opportunity to wear pants.
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I’m standing next to my sister in a mustard velvet wrap dress as she is married on the edge of the Clackamas River—a dress I sent her a picture of days after she got engaged to let her know it’s what I would be wearing as her maid of honor. As the minister waxes philosophical about the meaning of marriage, I mentally review my remaining single friends, and determine that I’ve got two, maybe three more dresses to wear before I can retire. I shift my weight, careful to not lock my knees.