When my old college pal Gina asked me to be her bridesmaid, I thought it was a sweet gesture to reconnect. Instead, she dropped me over my nails and forbade me from wearing the dress I paid for. My subtle move at another event showed her she didn’t control me, and it felt so good.
Gina and I weren’t super close in college, but we shared plenty of laughs over ramen and wine, venting about life. She was the bold, charming one, while I was the reliable doer. After graduation, we lost touch, caught up in new cities and jobs. So, when Gina texted me a year ago to join her bridal party, I was shocked but excited. I thought it meant she cherished our bond, and I agreed, hoping it would bring us closer.
Big mistake. The bridesmaid chat was Gina’s command center—strict dress codes, hair rules, even mascara preferences. It felt like we were her dolls, not friends. Then came the nail issue. “Nude almond acrylics with silver bands,” she ordered. I explained that, as a nurse, I couldn’t wear long nails for hygiene reasons. Her reply was ice-cold: “Then you’re not right for my bridal party.” No discussion, just a swift kick out.
I was hurt but fed up. “Fine, I’m out,” I texted. My partner, Ryan, comforted me. “That’s not a friend,” he said. I agreed, ready to move on. Then Gina messaged: “You can still come as a guest.” I’d already shelled out $500 for a gorgeous sky-blue dress she picked, plus shoes and fittings. It was a dreamy, elegant gown, perfect for her wedding. I asked if I could wear it as a guest. “No,” she snapped. “I don’t want your bad energy there.”
Bad energy? I was livid. “I own this dress,” I replied. She laughed it off: “Why would I want your hand-me-downs? It’s for my wedding.” I blocked her, done with her nonsense. Ryan said, “You’re free now.” But then, Ryan’s coworker invited us to a fancy garden brunch the same weekend as Gina’s wedding. Looking through my closet, I saw the blue dress, untouched. “Wear it,” Ryan urged. “It’s yours, and it’s stunning.”
I wavered but went for it. The brunch was beautiful—sunlit lawns, flowers everywhere, and elegant tables. I styled the dress with minimal accessories and felt radiant. Ryan looked dashing in a light suit. We took a few photos, and I shared one online, tagging the shop where I bought the dress. By night, Gina texted, furious: “You wore it to ruin my wedding!” Mutual friends had spotted the dress’s color, and she lost it, thinking I was stealing her spotlight.
“I wasn’t at your wedding,” I replied. “It’s my dress.” She ranted about her ruined aesthetic, but I heard she spiraled at her wedding, obsessing over my post and accusing guests of disloyalty. Friends messaged me: “You looked amazing! Gina’s out of line.” My quiet choice to wear the dress spoke louder than any fight, and it felt like sweet justice. What would you have done?
