Kat
“And he wantsme to do the bridal shower for Leah,” Anna Grace is saying later that night, a mass of lo mein held between her chopsticks as she sits on her couch. “Why would anyone in their right mind think that I should organize a bridal shower?”
“Because you can herd cats,” I say.
“I can’t herd in-laws,” she says around a mouthful. “That requires things like delicacy and tact.”
“And you’re pretty good at organizing things,” I go on, ignoring her previous statement. Anna Grace has plenty of delicacy and tact, just sometimes chooses not to deploy them.
“Not bridal showers,” she says, plopping the takeout container back on the coffee table. “And I like Leah, but definitely not her bridal shower. She has… aesthetics and shit.”
The briefest of glances at Anna Grace’s home would reveal that she, too, has aesthetics and shit, but I don’t bother making the point. She’s making excuses for why she shouldn’t organize her future-sister-in-law’s bridal shower, but we both know the real reason she shouldn’t do it.
“Can you tell him you don’t want to?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Of course not,” she says. “He’ll tell her that I said I didn’t want to, and she’ll want to know why I don’t want to, and even though I just don’t want to because I don’t like bridal showers, no one will believe me because we all know women love organizing bridal shit and the real reason I don’t want to is because I don’t like her and don’t approve of his decision to marry her, and then our relationship will be weird for the rest of my life.”
Anna Grace’s family is considerably more traditional and conservative than Anna Grace herself, a fact that’s caused her no small amount of friction over the years I’ve known her.
“Tell him you’re busy with work.”
“Not good enough.”
“Tell him you’re allergic to…” I wave one hand in the air, trying to think of something to be allergic to at bridal showers. “Champagne.”
“Then I could never drink champagne in front of them again,” she points out.
“Tell him you’re busy that weekend.”
“It’s not scheduled yet.”
“Then tell him you’re busy every weekend.”
“God, I wish,” she says, tilting her head back against the couch. In theory, we’re at her house to watch The Bachelor, which we do every Wednesday night, but in truth the sound is down too low to hear and neither of us have watched more than thirty seconds of it yet this season. “I’m gonna get roped into this, aren’t I?”
“Okay,” I say, picking up my beer and taking a sip, as I think, staring off into space. “How about you make a vision board for the worst bridal shower you can possibly imagine—the worst one for her—and then you act really excited about it.”
She rests her hands, fingers interlocked, atop her head and looks at me, thinking.
“Go on,” she says.
I pull both legs onto the couch, fold them under myself, and stare into space. On the television, a brunette cries through fake eyelashes.
“First, call her excitedly and tell her that you can rent the high school gymnasium for a really good price, and even though there’s no AC, they’ll include use of those giant fans for free,” I say.
“Oooh. Okay.”
“Tell her you can’t wait to see who wins the Bridal Shower Keg Stand,” I go on.
“Yikes.”
“Or the Bridal Shower Beer Pong.”
“She might like that, you never know.”
“And that you hope everyone brings a good contribution to the Bridal Shower Jungle Juice.”
Anna Grace snorts.