Terror on the Facebook

This morning I was feeling all inspired to go out in my yard, weed the flower beds, maybe chalk the driveway with the kids, possibly find my missing earring that has to be in this god-forsaken house somewhere. 

Then, I logged into Facebook.

Before I even tell you what punched me in the face, let me just give you a teeney bit of insight to this hot mess that lives in my head.

I tend to react with a pretty deranged attitude toward certain situations. Like, I'm talking HOLY FREAKOUT, sirens, panic sweats, etc. Then, after I spend some time traveling the house and wringing my hands in despair, I calm down (right around the same time Elle hits me in the face with a frying pan) and start to reassess the situation.

I'm not kidding. Well... I may be stretching it a bit with the whole frying pan-issue, but the rest is alarmingly accurate.

Because, peeps, my friend is getting married.

Which in itself is not news.

Nope. Neither is the fact that she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, which is really an honor. This gal is one of my very good friends, someone who has been through a lot with me, and someone who I know I could not speak with for years and be able to pick right back up where we left off. Aww. But yes, it really is like that.

This coming weekend I will be flying back to my hometown in order to attend a baby shower for an entirely different friend. The gal who is getting married (confused yet?) (we'll call her Tammy, a nickname that will probably earn me the task of keeping a huge pack of tissues in my bust during her wedding in case she starts to cry, except that's sort of gross and I don't think she'd want the tissues that I was hiding in my brassiere).... anyway, Tammy sent me a message trying to coordinate a meeting of all the girls on Sunday so that we could try to tackle this dress debacle in a single trip to the city. She suggested making a day of it by meeting for breakfast and traveling out of town together in the same car. I felt the excitement building inside when I thought about hanging out with Tammy and her sister, who also happens to be a dear friend. I thought it would be nice to  hang out with them while we shopped for fancy dresses. And then I realized that what I was feeling wasn't excitement. It was absolute terror.

I will have to wear that dress. In front of people. 99% of whom I don't know. In the summer heat. At a wedding. A dress.

A fancy one.

Fancy dresses aren't jeans. Not even close. Wait. Can they make denim bridesmaid dresses? Doesn't Tammy come from a long line of country people?

Then I realized that this was the other sister who was getting married. The cowboy boots and denim sister was already married to her wonderful husband.

Shoot.

Well, this is a humor blog.

Things are going to get hilarious.

All the way to the Nut House.

Which is where I'll be after trying on 900 dresses and realizing that I should have stopped growing at age 6. I will find a fault with every single one of those dresses because I am me and this is what I do.

By tomorrow, I should be okay with things. Acceptance is the second step.

The third and final step is alcohol. At least, I think it is. I usually don't remember anything else after that.