Eleven months have passed since my last post, which is more than enough time for a funny, attractive, intelligent, and sometimes-sexy girl to meet and successfully seduce a potential husband. Yet I’m certain that no one envisions a brand new three-carat ring twinkling on my left hand as I type this post. So it’s no surprise, then, that I’m still enduring the long day’s journey into night of my singledom. But I’ve been dealing with it fairly decently—until last week.
In other words, I only succumbed to sleeping with one ex-boyfriend (and for that I blame Bethenny, because I had no idea how easy it would be to finish an entire bottle of Skinnygirl Margaritas in one sitting). I did not renew my It’s Just Lunch membership, even in the face of their ceaseless phone calls. Even better, I successfully achieved removal from the It’s Just Lunch marketing contact list (by no means a small feat, since I ultimately had to threaten filing an FTC complaint before they complied). Overall, I was navigating the dating scene pretty well, controlling my neurotic tendencies and minimizing ego and self-esteem blows. That is, until the aforementioned last week, when the absolute worst happened.
My little sister got engaged.
My gorgeous, fun, innately stylish, always sexy, non-socially-awkward (and did I mention younger?) sister who lives in Los Angeles and works in fashion. Until her engagement, the only thing that kept me from drowning myself in Lake Michigan when comparing our lives was the fact that I make a lot more money than her. That was the sole justification staving off suicide. But now that she’s betrothed to a well-heeled (namely, Ferragamo loafers), BMW 7 Series–driving, Cartier Roadster–wearing financier, her net worth just skyrocketed. Worse yet, notwithstanding the description above, her fiance isn’t a douchebag in the least. In fact, I absolutely adore the guy. So when she turned up on Easter wearing an engagement ring (enormous brilliant-cut center stone, Tacori platinum micro-pave setting), and asked me to be her maid of honor, I spent the rest of the day fighting the urge to remove the Honeybaked ham to make room for my head in the oven.
Since then, I’ve been a disaster. I downloaded the entire six-part BBC production of Pride and Prejudice on iTunes, and I’ve been working my way through it (along with a case of Rosso di Montalcino) each night. I’ve been waking up soaked in sweat from nightmares involving loaded questions, whispers and sidelong glances at countless upcoming events (wedding showers, the bachelorette party, the rehearsal dinner and the wedding) where my older sister spinsterhood will be glaringly obvious.
It was in this state of mind that I decided to rise early on April 29th and watch the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Yes, I was one of those people. I own the fact that I care (sometimes very acutely) about stupid, inconsequential things like Real Housewives and celebrity gossip and royal weddings.
But I was different, in one significant way, from the millions of other plugged-in-to-all-the-wrong-things women who tuned in to watch.
I wasn’t watching for Kate. I was watching for Pippa.
What’s more, I was seeking solace from Pippa. Because (in my mind) she was being forced to dutifully play maid of honor to her thinner, prettier, posher sister at the most fabulous wedding of all time. She would be reduced (I thought) to little more than a handmaid, arranging the hem of the most talked-about wedding dress in three decades. And at the end of the wedding, her already superior sister would be transformed from commoner (I’m borrowing from English ridiculousness by using that term; in no way do I believe there’s anything actually “common” about a high society It girl from a family with a net worth of 30 million pounds) into the freaking Duchess of Cambridge, wife of an almost-king. Whereas Pippa would emerge from Westminster Abbey still title-less, shivering in the long, cold shadow of the surreal glory her sister had just celebrated.
In other words, I fancied myself as having a lot in common with Pippa Middleton, and I figured that watching her on the big day would make me feel better. If only because I imagined that she would feel comparatively worse as maid of honor at her sister’s wedding than I would feel as maid of honor at my sister’s wedding. I tuned in seeking nothing more than refuge.
But Pippa Middleton, you saucy minx, you gave me a new lease on life.
Imagine how dumbfounded I was when I saw the tanned, toned and utterly hot Pippa Middleton emerge from the limousine, beaming and exuding confidence. Imagine my delight when her perfect butt and cascading chestnut curls stole the spotlight during Kate’s endlessly long walk down the aisle, not to mention when the hotter and more fun “of Wales” brother, Prince Harry, appeared totally bewitched by her. Ultimately, imagine my inspiration when her dazzling performance as maid of honor resulted in Facebook fan pages devoted to her body and widespread critical acclaim.
So thank you, Pippa Middleton, for being the ECT jolt that broke me out of my mourning and sorrow. I now have a muse to model myself after in the coming months of maid of honor responsibilities. I’ve already dusted off my L.A. Tan and Equinox membership cards. And it looks like I’ll be watching Parts 3-6 of Pride and Prejudice on the treadmill. Oh, and did I mention that my sister’s fiance has two extremely hot, successful brothers, both of whom will be serving as best men in the wedding?