Free Autobiography of a Fat Bride by Laurie Notaro Page B

that scared me on my wedding day, it was the possibility that once I was up there in front of two hundred people and I became actively involved in vow-taking, I would be sucker-punched by an intestinal cramp that would demand an immediate escape to the ladies’ room with a commemorative book of matches in hand. In other situations, sure, you can sneak away when a doody gremlin is tugging at your colon, but good luck when you have a leading role and your part is up next, although I was somewhat prepared to muddle through. I’ve been onstage before. When I was nine, my dance school put on a recital for an old folks home, and right smack in the middle of our tap-dancing salute to the theme song from
The Sting,
an old man pushed his wheelchair to the front row, unzipped his fly, pulled what I understood to be an uncooked sausage out of his pants, and then peed all over the floor. At that age, I was completely unaware that men could even do that, and as I stared at the puddle in front of me, my little feet kept shuffling off to Buffalo as Judy Garland’s voice shouted in my head, “Go ON with the show! Go ON with the show!” while the rest of my dance class burst into tears, walked off stage, or just plain sat down.
    So to cut the digestive train off at the pass, I flipped open the box of Immodium AD, my best means of protection against The Big Poo. I popped two out of their foil bubble-pack tombs and chewed them mercilessly, then chowed down another one for good measure.
    Step Two involved looking in the mirror, and what I saw amazed me. My face was clear. Absolutely clear. Although I had a Band-Aid in hand and had painstakingly constructed a far-fetched yet almost believable story about how members of a nearby killer-bee colony had expressed an attraction for my new honey-milk hand lotion (in case I had more than one zit, I could attribute the breakout to a swarm attack by the hive), I did not have a strawberry-size boil on my nose, neck, or chest that required makeup, bandaging, or immediate cosmetic lancing. My mother owed me five whole bucks.
    Step Three in my Preventative Measures Plan consisted of using a flashlight and a mirror with magnifying properties only a surgeon would need to scan my chinny-chin-chin in a quest for devious little piggy hairs. I used to think that I had a very kind, sympathetic mirror, but I now lean toward the theory that I bought a defective one, because in my bathroom, I have a regular female jaw. Push me into the power of direct sunlight, however, and I have chin scrub fuller than Grizzly Adams’s. Since I was getting married outside, my mandible foliage had the potential to be a deal breaker, so I had to reap the forest carefully with my trusted tweezers. I relied on my tweezers solely after my encounter with wax strips, which do not disclose in the instructions that repeated usage in the same area after about fifteen applications will indeed rip all remnants of testosterone and most of the skin cells right off your face, leaving exposed bone. I learned that lesson the hard way the night of our engagement party as I and my perfectly proportioned, square-shaped chin scab tried to act cute and engaged, while behind me, my invited guests were exchanging scenarios about how I may have acquired a rug burn in such a precarious and delightful spot.
    In Step Four, I layered myself with so much padding that if I had been knifed in the gut by any of my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends or his mom, not so much as a drop would have seeped through to the other side. There was no way I was going to have to borrow a sweatshirt or cardigan to tie around my bustle on my day of all days.
    This bride was prepared. She was all set.
    Or so she thought.
    It wasn’t until I was watching the bridesmaids walk down the aisle to the music of the string quartet that I realized I was at my wedding. My betrothed was already up at the turned-off waterfall with Ellen, watching the procession.
    I wasn’t shaking, I hadn’t