Free By the Numbers by Jen Lancaster Page A

remember that nimrod you dumped for Chris—what was his name? Werner? Weimaraner? No . . . Wyatt! That’s it! That’s a stuuuuupid name. ’Member Weimaraner liked anagrams? He was like, ‘Foster Bancroft, your anagram is Barf Cotton Serf!’ Dude, no one wants to be seated next to
that
at Thanksgiving dinner for the next forty years, am I right?”
    He looks out at the guests, and those who met Wyatt are nodding their heads. Serious, sincere Wyatt did ramble on about the hidden wisdom in anagrams. Sure, I was interested at first to learn that “the hospital ambulance” was an anagram for “a cab, I hustleto help man” and that “
New York Times
” could translate to “monkeys write,” but even with my love of quoting stats, the anagram game got real boring real quick. I had a lot of trouble maintaining a straight face the day he told Patrick (Walsh) that his anagram was Watch Irk Slap, to which Patrick deadpanned, “You must be psychic, because you just predicted our future together.”
    Foster continues. “But you, Chris, you kinda challenge her. You make her leave her comfort zone. Because of you, she’s gonna have, like,
adventures
. Her life’s not gonna be all mapped out and shit. Together, the sum of your wholes adds up to more than one hundred and forty-six and a half percent. You guys prove sometimes you have to go with what’s best for your heart and not what makes the most sense in your head. And that’s pretty badass. So congratulations, Penny Candy, drink up, and can you introduce me to your friend Judith because she is The Hotness! Whoa, hey, don’t take my mic. Oh, okay, it’s your turn? S’up, Karin? If it doesn’t work out with Judith, you can tell me what time it is, giiiiirl!”
    Karin practically shoves Foster out of the way. “Hi, everyone! I’m Karin, the maid of honor, and, um, Miguel, we’re going to need some coffee over here, please?” She points at Foster, who turns around in his chair to see if she’s motioning toward someone behind him. Miguel swoops in and collects all the liquor within arm’s reach so deftly that Foster doesn’t realize what’s happened.
    Foster’s almost as straitlaced as I am, which is why his performance tonight is so hilarious. Truly, I believe he’s power-drinking out of empathy for me, having witnessed Marjorie’s micromanagement firsthand. This week has been particularly tough after four trying months. From the moment Chris proposed, she’s second-guessed every single one of my premarital decisions, to the pointthat I completely abdicated having preferences and simply started asking what
she
wanted.
    Nothing here tonight is what I envisioned. Not a damn thing. I wanted simple and easy, intimate and personal, maybe a tea-length ivory satin gown and a corona of braids with a flower tucked behind my ear. A justice of the peace or a judge. A dinner with family and a few friends.
    Instead, I got fussy and complicated and overly formal. While I can’t deny I’m thrilled to be married and the reception is more fun than anticipated, I wish I’d had some control over the elements that felt important to me. Namely, I loathe my muttonchop-sleeved dress with the sheer, deep V of lace in the front that rises up into an odd sort of turtleneck with a million buttons down the back. I’m exactly as sexy as a rack of lamb right now.
    I feel silly with my hair in this ridiculous Alexis-Colby-from-
Dynasty
-inspired updo, a massive pompadour of tight, sticky curls bisected with a stiff twist of tulle that juts so far out it bumped against the back window in the limo on the way over here.
    I hate how the salmon with citrus aioli served on risotto makes the ballroom smell like a dirty aquarium. No one in the immediate family even
likes
salmon—we only offered it as a choice because Marjorie wanted to up the elegance