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For all you never-engaged readers out there (or you engaged but never made it that far in the planning, or you engaged but it was a shotgun wedding because baby was on its way…), have sympathy for your betrothed contemporaries. Wedding planning actually is a lot of work, and not just in Jennifer Lopez movies.

I was recently e-mailed a color-coded spreadsheet, as part of my maid-of-honor duties. On it was the potential guest list for Elise and Jeremy’s wedding, with a color assigned to Elise’s family, Jer’s family, Elise’s friends, Jer’s friends, Elise’s parents’ friends, Jer’s parents’ friends, Elise’s brother’s sig-other’s sister’s uncle, etc. etc. Next to each name was a check, an X, or a question mark.

My job was to look over the list and see if there was anyone I thought could be cut. Of course, I looked only at our mutual friends and decided that they should all be there and, in fact, more should be added. I also thought Jer should invite even more guys (he already invited a ton) of the single persuasion so us unattached ladies could have our choice for some end-of-the-night hotel shenanigans.

Clearly, I am not the best person to help whittle down a list.

You see, unlike me, Elise and Jeremy are classy and understated folk, and want their wedding to be a small, meaningful and intimate affair. On the other hand, I, who have rarely been to any kind of ceremony without a glass of champagne in one hand and in my younger days, a bottle of Drambuie (look it up, children), want it to be a huge party.

Unfortunately for Elise and Jer, his parents agree with me (in a way). They are New Yorkers and therefore want a big, opulent wedding with many guests — though I think their motives are to have everyone they love at the blessed event, instead of to have enough people to do the chicken dance with after.

(Disclaimer: Elise, in no way do I think you will allow and/or condone the chicken dance at your reception. If you choose not have it played, I will not in any way try to initiate either it or the Electric slide. Pinky swear.)

So, my more-the-merrier stance was not super helpful. Another big thing that happened was that Elise, Anne and Shields, my fellow bridesmaids, went bridesmaid dress shopping in Virginia and picked a dress. Elise asked me and Rosalina (who lives in Ohio) to try on the dress in our respective towns and tell her what we thought. She gave me the name of the designer and the style number and I set about calling around LA to see if any local bridal stores carried the dress.

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The first one who did was in Beverly Hills.

Yes, Beverly Hills. Ugh. Beverly Hills is my least favorite place on earth. For those of you who have never actually been to LA, Beverly Hills is not what you think it is. It is not filled with cool kids, like the ones from Clueless, or with amazing bikinis that awe teenage boys like in Mighty Ducks II, or with hip-rocking movie stars — unless they are over the age of 70.

Beverly Hills is filled with very old, very rich people, or people who want you to know they are rich. They drive very slow, the streets are super-confusing and everything seems faded and sad with dingy beige columns and little yippy dogs.

After sitting in traffic for an hour on Rodeo, I get to the store, which feels like a silent white mausoleum, empty save a few sequined dresses, and a very severe-looking high-fashion sales lady with long brown hair and some ash-grey afghan artfully thrown around her shoulders.

She greeted me warily, I stuttered something about my friend wanting me to try on a certain style of dress (Elise suggested I say it wasn’t the definite dress so that I didn’t get the hard sale). She sighed and said she remembered talking to me, and took me upstairs to the equally deserted fitting area.

Bridal Party Rule #2: When trying on dresses always play DUMB.

Since so many people are bicoastal, and because the internet has stolen so much business, bridal stores get really tired of people coming in, trying on dresses, and then ordering them from somewhere else. After hearing about my long-distance status, my lady flat out asked me if I would be buying it online. I told her oh no, as soon as Elise made her final decision, I would probably buy it from her (LIE: we are getting them at cost through Elise’s mother-in-law), so they could do alterations, and by the way, could I have her card.

You should have seen how her attitude changed. All the sudden she was searching through the racks with vigor, looking for the dress (stores often use a different numbering system than the designer, so it is a good idea to have a print-out picture of the dress).

I’m not even sure if she believed me, but just the fact that I validated her job, seemed to make her relax and she opened up, talking about her own upcoming wedding and other pleasant trifles. She found the dress, a beautiful, floor length strapless empire-waist chiffon, although she didn’t have it in navy, the correct color, only a very flattering sage green.

After a few minutes struggling to get my gynormous boobs squished into one of the stores strapless corsets, I finally pulled on the dress. I was overwhelmed. I looked LIKE AN ADULT. I had been a bridesmaid once before, but I was only 22, and we wore short J-Crew 50’s type dresses. This dress, and my new cut bob hair cut, made me look like a woman. A woman whose best friend was getting married, a woman who was twenty-freaking-seven years old, a woman who could not screw this role up.

Helpful hint #2: Bring some tissues into the dressing room, so you don’t get snot all over the sample dress.