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I’m sitting in my room, avoiding the heap of clean clothes strewn all over my floor. And the different types of underwear I’ve been contemplating to wear under my bridesmaid dress. You can’t wear the tight ones, because you’ll get a muffin top. Pretty bridesmaids don’t have muffin tops. And lacy ones will mark you as the slut. Not that I’m completely against that, but I don’t do one –night stands (or the good-girl version: one-night dances). No, I don’t just dance with you. I ask you to be my friend on facebook, then make you spend hundreds of dollars after calling me every day to come see me over spring break, and then dump you the second day of your visit to me.

That’s what I do. I’m that bridesmaid.

And that’s why I’m not the one getting married this weekend.

So these clothes & I. We are having a staredown, and they’re winning because I’m ignoring them.

I have this habit of never packing before midnight. It’s bad luck to pack before midnight, didn’t you know? See, I was going to pack, but friends needed advice on which shoes to wear with dresses, and I needed to work out. I am not going to be the chubby bridesmaid, either.

These clothes are trying to distract me while I’m typing, the jerks. The silence is making it awkward, and I’m not an awkward person, unless you’re a ginger and you take me to the zoo. Or my random awkward snorts when I laugh. Oh dear.

I try to avoid the awkward now, like by stopping myself from singing Miley Cyrus while I’m outside. And not telling everyone every secret I have. Keep it classy, Whitney. Have some mystery. Yes, I’m better at keeping things to myself now. It’s fun having some secrets, and God knows that telling the whole world, well, that can get awkward.

My friend introduced me to a blogger who is a baker, and I read her every day. I am going to copy the recipes I love, and be a great wife someday. I don’t want some man marrying me, and then finding out I don’t have any secret recipes to whip out of my skinny jeans (because I will be a wife that wears skinny jeans). Or I’ll just be that old maid who lives down the streets with her stuffed animals (because real ones give me a horrid gag reflex) and bakes for all the neighborhood kids and tells them old stories of awkward National Anthems, hip sleds, and of course the snorts.

An old maid who wears skinny jeans. And who never took out her lip ring.

Shoot, it’s going to be awkward no matter what.