Note to Self: Don’t Die
Every once in a while, one of our friends surprises us by asking for our advice. Anyone who’s even taken a cursory glance at this bloggy thing of ours will realize that asking us to weigh in on anything of great personal significance makes about as much sense as trying to organize an Agoraphobic’s Day parade. And yet, our pals persist.
One boon companion, a lovely young thing that looks a bit as though she were invented by a special brigade of scientists from the future who are attempting to distill the very essence of physical pulchritude down to a single human female, also happens to be somewhat deficient in the whole smarts category. She’s not exactly the brightest log on the yuletide fire, if you get our drift. But again: So very lovely.** Anyway, she’s getting married for the second time and her disproportionate show of anxiety has lead her to ask us what she should do in terms of outfitting herself for the long march to to Wedded Bliss Episode II: A New
Hope. (Sorry, dude, but we’re more than a little jealous over here. Just wait ‘til our drunk and lachrymose toast. You’ll wish you’d been born without ears.)
Our response was as follows:
“Well, first things first, white’s out. So there’s that. But don’t go off-white, because that just conveys that you’re damaged goods. Wear a spicy little black cocktail dress. Show off some leg. But whatever you do, you should buy something you might actually be able to wear again. Wedding dresses are a scam, like $3500 caskets and getting your baby fingerprinted. (Kidnappers always chop off the baby’s fingers right before they molest them. Everyone knows that. That’s why they’re called kidnappers.)”
In our own way, we think we helped. Also, while we’re on the topic, it occurs to us now that our great aunt was buried in her wedding dress. It was so surreal we thought we were turning into a melting clock. If Bill Faulkner were around to see that, he would have been all, “That’s fucked up, guy.” Just saying is all.
**Seriously, though, she’s got the kind of face that will just about break your heart wide open, in a sudden and violent way, like what you have to do with lobster claws to get to the sweet, sweet meat inside. And then when you’re lying there on the sidewalk, clutching your chest and thinking about how much it sucks that you’re never going to finish that awesome new Lydia Millet book
you’re reading, whoever comes over to give you succor as you pass from this world into the next will also pitch over sideways, hands flailing at his necktie, and so on and so on and so on. And no, she doesn’t read this blog so we’re not being nearly as creepy as you might think.