Who You Know by Theresa Alan

been storing up visions of an elaborate reception since she’d eloped twenty-eight years earlier, and she was spewing all of her ideas my way.
    Since Greg had proposed, Mom’s crusade to get me to lose weight had spiraled out of control, though she feigned subtlety. If she saw me eating something, anything, with too much enjoyment, sometimes she’d say, “ Think of the wedding pictures” or “Think of the bridal gown.” More often, she would watch me eat and give me a look like I was a drug-addled prostitute who murdered small animals for sport. She did not hide her disappointment in my appearance well.
    I was determined to find a wedding dress before she came out for Christmas—I did not want to go shopping for a dress with my mother. It was bad enough going shopping with Jen. Jen thought shopping for a wedding dress was a blast. If there were an award for the capitalist of the year, Jen would have been a serious contender. She’d at least get an honorable mention. She loved shopping as much as I hated it. It was simply not a good way for a fat, poor person to spend her day. You’d think as the bride I could get excited, but frankly I found planning all the petty details that went into hosting the most expensive party of my life rather dull.
    I was late for my appointment because of little Ms. Capitalist who was hungover from partying the night before. I might’ve been jealous—it had been forever since I’d gone out and had fun—except she didn’t look as though she’d had a particularly good time. Her hangover made me feel both righteous and dull.
    Three other women had appointments at the boutique at the same time I did. Five “bridal consultants” flitted around giving advice and agreeing with everything we brides-to-be said. The women trying on dresses were positively emaciated. One of the brides-to-be was a size two. She looked damn good in everything she tried on. Wedding dresses are made for the clinically anorexic. Even the other women, who were size eightish, looked bloated in the white silk sample gowns, which, though they were allegedly all size ten, nobody could zip up. I didn’t even try. White’s a horribly unflattering color. Why hadn’t someone had the forethought to make the traditional bridal gown a slimming shade of black or some color that wouldn’t make women’s skin look so sallow?
    I stood in front of a mirror on a platform the size of a car tire because the dress was way too long for a shrimpo like me. I sensed that all the skinny bitches were saying, What loser would marry that lard-ass blubber butt? Perhaps they weren’t using those exact words, but that was the gist of it.
    â€œOoh, this one looks great on you,” Jen said, the lying bitch. “I’m so jealous. I wish I was getting married. I want to have at least one kid before I’m thirty.”
    â€œYeah,” I said, grimacing at my reflection.
    Why wasn’t I more excited about this? Maybe because marriage and bridal registries were supposed to come after I had broken the hearts of a string of exotic lovers around the world. The plan had been that I would spend my twenties in a high-paying, fulfilling career. After spending years accumulating adventures, I would settle down maybe in my late thirties, to having just one live-in lover.
    The reality was that I was too terrified of getting herpes to sleep around, and as for travel and excitement, I hadn’t even made it out of the States. One spring break spent in Florida and a couple of weekend trips to Chicago were as far as I’d gotten.
    My plans for an exciting life dwindled quickly after college, when suddenly my friends began getting married one after the other. Some of my friends had bought houses; some were already having babies. Things were getting out of control, and despite myself I’d been knocked over by the nuptial domino.
    The average age American women got