Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Suburban Bling.

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
“So, tell me about him!” I demanded in an overpoweringly girlish way.
“Well,” she started, smiling and fingering her brand new too many carrot diamond ring, the one she’s been dreaming about since the first grade. “He’s so sweet, so gentle, he always puts my feelings before his own.” I couldn’t help thinking this guy was either gay or inexistent, but I let her continue before commenting. “I feel like I can tell him anything.”
Except that you don’t love him, I think, still maintaining that fake smile I’ve had on for the past half an hour. It’s only taken that long to figure out my old high school friend is not getting married to, what’s his name, Derek or something because she loves him, but rather because she loves the idea of being married.
“God, Stacy, that’s so great. So tell me again, how did you guys meet?”
“Well, we were both just at the right place at the right time. I was stopping in at Smoothie King for my Lunch break and he was in front of me in line. We both ordered strawberry banana smoothies and well, you know the rest.” She paused to finish her tea and bask in the lies her happiness is based on. “It was fate.”
Yeah, sure. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe you just randomly happened upon an attractive single guy and decided right then and there you were going to have his over sheltered suburban babies.
“Wow, that’s like so fate! It’s things like that that just prove there’s a god.”
Stacy nodded, smiling at her spoon, “Definitely.”
A cheery waitress named something with an “i-e” at the end approached our table and asked if we needed anything else. It was clear she was trying to get rid of us, the place was packed and all we’d ordered were two chais, but Stacy just had to prolong this meeting by ordering a refill and biscotti. Trying not to express my disappointment, I asked her how the wedding plans were going just to keep her talking.
“Well, we’re really excited since it’s only three weeks away!” Pause for a high-pitched squeal. “But um, everything’s set except we’re missing a few RSVPs, I think one from you, actually!” She accused innocently, raising her just-waxed eyebrows at me inquisitively.
“Oh, yeah…I meant to, just so busy lately, sorry!”
“No prob! Anyway, so the caterer is of course completely incompetent, I mean if I say I want four dinner choices, it means I get four dinner choices, I don’t care if they ‘don’t offer it’….” As Stacy babbled on about her obscene, overpriced, and over anticipated wedding, I stared into the swirling depths of my chai and wondered why I hated her so much. Was it just the loveless, passionless marriage thing, or did it go beyond that somehow? She firmly believed in every conformist principle I secretly despise; the housewife, early marriage, perfect ponytail, country club membership, silver minivan driving, white tennis skirt wearing woman that I would never be. Is it wrong to live by my own rules, to treat life as one huge improv performance? Is it posh or egotistical to believe I was put on this Earth to accomplish more than loads of laundry and a perfectly maintained one hundred and twenty pounds? The answer is no, absolutely not. So then the only question left is why can’t I face those beliefs, why can’t I tell Stacy she’s a conceited, good for nothing man using b****? Why am I at this cutesy café discussing cake flavors and dress lengths?
“…and it’s Spring, so strapless is the only way to go, don’t you think?”
“What-Yeah, definitely.”
Why was I sitting here pretending to give a s*** about Stacy Brooks when really all I felt was pity for her pathetically ignorant fiancée?
“…so the ceremony will be classic, you know, in a chapel, priest and all that. So we finish the whole getting married thing and then we party!”
Because we all lack a little bit of free will sometimes, but I wasn’t going to let it get the best of me anymore. I took a ten out of my purse and placed it on the table, stopping Stacy short during a long-winded explanation of chocolate vs. vanilla icing.
“Sorry, Stacy, I gotta go.” I said, getting up and pushing in my chair.
“What? Where are you going?”
Putting my purse on my shoulder, I turned, looking her in the eye.
“Hey, Stac, do me a favor… don’t forget to get a pre nump.
And with that, I waltzed out of “The Cheshire Cat” feeling satisfied and oddly empowered. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I pulled the big plastic clip out of my hair and let it billow down my shoulders, free and relieved.

That’s better.

Join the Discussion

This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

mloc1030 said...
Apr. 19, 2010 at 7:58 am
Site Feedback