My {so called} Mediocre Life

“Survival is the key word to remember – not victory, not conquest, just survival." -- Max Brooks, The Zombie Survival Guide

That is about where I am right now. Pretty much just surviving. Not conquering, not winning, but scraping by.  Which works for some, mostly those caught in a brutal zombie apocalypse as the aforementioned quote might suggest.

It has been a minute since we last spoke.  And speaking of surviving, I’ve made it through a hurricane, an earthquake and, most recently, my sister’s wedding. I throw out the term ‘survived’ because: 1) I did; and 2) I was not victorious in reprising Pippa’s role of best maid of honor ever.  In fact, I hope my sister isn’t reading this because although the deed is already done, her first wrong choice was choosing me for the position. I say this not because I don’t love the hell out of my sister, but because I am in no form responsible and mature or feminine and dainty.  In fact, I might even suggest that Kramer could fill the spot and make it less awkward than I ever could.

When I was growing up, I was always told to be careful, slow down, don’t break that, etc. And no matter what, 100 percent of the time every time, I did exactly what I was told not to do – whether subconscious or not. So when the photographer asked who would be buttoning my sister’s dress for photos and everyone said, “Jamie. She is the maid of honor,” my stomach sank and my palms became very sweaty. And for good reason. It was like my body knew before I did that I would inevitably destroy the one thing the bride is most concerned about the day of her wedding: Her dress. 

My big fat German (I know, an anomaly) fingers could not even figure out how to snap the corset that was sewn into the lining. Hell, I didn’t even know those things existed. Well I made it through that part, while putting my sister in great pain due to lack of air inhalation. Then came the buttons with the loopholes from hell. I could barely pick these things up with tweezers, let alone these man-hands. So I popped the first button on the dress and all hell broke loose. She started crying because she couldn’t see the back of the dress, she could only hear me gasp and start cursing feverishly. Then I started crying. First it was a wave of absolute fuckery, then came the anger and anxiety. I threw my hands in the air like a child, demanded that one of the other girls do the task before me, and I think I said something along the lines of “I quit this wedding!” Way to go, Jamie. Let your sister down on her big day.

I took a minute to re-group. Thank God there were some level-headed, not to mention girly-girls, in the bridal party. They fixed the dress right up and my sister looked absolutely stunning. I, on the other hand, was a mess. I didn’t even want to walk down the aisle, and now they were trying to tell me I had to hold her train for pictures and fluff it before the final send off. I decided at this point, it might be xanax o’clock. 

The only qualifiers I had to take this job were the following: 1) my sister is one of my best friends; 2) I secretly know her a lot more than she thinks I do; and 3) I would do anything in the world for her.  So I decided not to give up. I stomped my big clodhopper feet all over the tulle under her dress during the entire photo shoot. I dropped the train a few times in the rain and mud. And to top it all off, when asked to bustle her, I stood there with a look of horror and confusion and suddenly became an ESL student. This was all so foreign to me, and I thought, very foreign to her as well. But overnight, my sister – the girl who only had guy friends in high school and told me not to give a fuck what anyone thought of me – had become a woman. A woman who was in love, getting married and knew how to bustle a friggin’ dress. It made me want to cry in a very different way.

So while everyone says that they are their own worst critic, in this case it was very much true and probably very much deserved. And I was scoreless in the bottom of the eighth, but hit it out of the park in the bottom of the ninth with my maid of honor speech.  I steered away from the cynical (which was almost impossible) and didn’t stock it chock full of cheesy jokes (GASP), but instead tried to keep it as real as possible. Equal parts embarrassing childhood stories, congratulatory praise and flashbacks of a blossoming love story.  Siskel and Ebert would have given it two thumbs up if Siskel was still alive and Ebert weren’t such a dick. Also, according to my special date, who reads this and will be left out until he feels comfortable with his new found level of fame, said it had people in tears.

Actually writing this down just made me realize this is a tale of triumph for the underdog, and perhaps I was wrong in my earlier assessment. I have my brief moments of victory, not just survival.  I am signing off, so I can finish my bloody mary before my computer explodes in this coffee shop that I can only describe as being Steve Jobs’ wet dream (RIP) with a dash of the L Word.