Wednesday of this week I was scheduled to make my first appearance as a bridesmaid. So, on Tuesday, I packed my $123, I don’t know what color blue this is, but it was the most difficult color of blue to find in the history of the world blue bridesmaid dress into my car and drove an hour and a half Southeast, to Connell, Washington, population: 2,500, including the livestock. Yes, this was the town that reported the speeding ticket I acquired two years ago while driving through their county in their daily newspaper. Upon arrival in Connell I was already so tired of peering out my window and seeing wide open spaces with no hint of the ascetic anywhere, that I wondered how I was going to last two days in this city without making some sarcastic comment about the amount of tumbleweed outnumbering the amount of citizens, and the oddly familiar smell of cow dung which seemed to be oozing from every orifice in a fifty mile radius, thus potentially offending the bride and groom and the majority of their families. I also had been given no directions to the church I was supposed to help decorate, and the bride was apparently out of her cell-phone’s range. But as I needed to find a bathroom anyway, (my bladder seems to shrink in size with each new road trip), I decided I would attempt efficiency, stopping to ask directions while simultaneously securing some facilities.

A great plan, only no one seemed to have any idea that a Methodist church even existed in their city, let alone where to find it. One person I asked even looked exasperated at my asking so difficult a question and stammered something about not being from this city. Now I understand not wanting to admit being from a place boasting of the world’s best cow poop smell but c’mon! there is no way that you shouldn’t know where everything is in this city, whether you are from here or not, as the entire length of the city probably stretches about five miles, total. And in thinking that, I realized that my own logic was boldly highlighting my own ability to most likely procure this non-existent Methodist church by my own faculties, and so, I bid the nervous store clerk adieu, and went on my merry way.

I did shortly thereafter find said Methodist church, and lo and behold, it did exist! And there sat my cellphoneless, apologetic bride, sweaty and stressed with the prospect of decorating the church by herself, as no one else could get time off work, and her groom seemed somewhat less than helpful as far as flower arrangements, lighting and hanging gossamer were concerned. His less than helpful look could actually have been translated into a statement resembling: Honey, why does this stuff even matter? And had he felt he could realistically ask her this question without her rolling him into a little ball and fast-pitching him right through the sanctuary doors, perhaps he would have. And I would have looked at the bride and nodded gently and concurred, that really, it doesn’t.

But as formal weddings do traditionally lend themselves to some sort of formal decorating, I kicked into wedding planner party mode (It’s a feature I come with; the button is on my lower back somewhere.), and proceeded to hang lights, gossomer, flowers and good cheer until I wanted to scream from the pain radiating from my tack punching fingertips. I actually woke up sore the next day from my stint as Rapid Church Decorator. Aching, throbbing, SORE from decorating a church. I somehow don’t think that is what God had in mind when He decided to endorse The Wedding Ceremony.

The church being thus decorated and massive amounts of spaghetti, salad and garlic bread consumed, we took to practicing the technicalities of the ceremony with Pastor Joe. I really don’t think the Pastor’s name was actually Joe, and to be honest have no idea what his name was, which tells you how much I was paying attention at the rehearsal. But I did manage to be the only bridesmaid of five who didn’t dead SPRINT down the aisle once the music started.

After what had to have been our fourth run-through of the ceremony I was about to mutiny and throw my non-existent bouquet that I was pretend holding, and march right down that bow-ridden aisle and into non-wedding practicing freedom, when Pastor Joe said we were finished for the evening. And in that moment I smiled whole-heartedly at Pastor Joe and with my barely open eyes said thank you, thank you, Pastor Joe for putting an end to this bliss-driven misery. And then I vowed to elope.