It’s a wickedly mean thing to do to my dearest friend Toni. I need to consider the consequences.
Yesterday Toni and I buzzed through Nordstrom Rack before getting lunch. We have a long-standing tradition that involves my picking out horribly ugly dresses in stores and holding them up as she groans in response. And we laugh our fool heads off. There is a never-ending assortment of ugly dresses. Our underlying understanding is that she will be my maid of honor if ever I get married but I get to pick what she will wear for my wedding. Toni is stylish and pretty, size 4 tiny, and petite. I pick huge sequined things with feathers and enormous molded bosoms. If she says it’s too big, I say I’ll tuck it in with safety pins. I pick zebra-striped shocking pink hooker dresses with leather studs. If she says it’s too sexy to wear in church, I find a multi-colored vinyl raincoat for her to wear over it. I pick colors like glow-in-the dark yellow because Toni looks like an alien in yellow. If ever I get married I’ll probably wear jeans and Chucks so that Toni can be featured in any photos. I want her to steal the limelight. I hate limelight.
It’s not likely that I’ll ever get to pick an ugly dress for Toni because the likelihood of my getting married is slim to none. My children are aware of the understanding Toni and I have about my wedding and her maid of honor dress. And my traitorous children have entered a pact with Toni that if I can choose her dress then Toni can choose my husband. Now she has much more power than I have. An ugly dress is just for a day. An ugly husband is for a lifetime.