Slowly. Stately. Wobbly. I’m not an ace in heels. Whitney’s train slid down the aisle before me, a tidal wave of white silk whispering along the red carpet. Though maid of honor, I was to follow directly behind her as she entered, a dictate of DuBois family tradition. No doubt a relic of their cherished debutante past, allowing the bride-to-be a final, glorious one-upping of her sister or closest friend. Don’t be ugly. Whitney means well. Mostly. Step. Pause. Step. My floor-length dress made each stride a challenge, but I was determined not to pull a Jennifer Lawrence. When she trips in front of everyone, it’s adorable. I’d look like a circus clown. My hastily assembled crisis team had scrambled back into their respective positions. Problem solved, but I still couldn’t understand how such a ridiculous mistake could occur. Those florists were in for some sharp words.
