Eventually, we squashed it. And by squashed, I mean we ignored each other at the pre-party until we finally had a spat and moved on. Shoutout to our Middle Eastern roots for our healthy conflict resolution skills.

Really, it wasn’t about school spirit. It was about holding up my end of our friendship. Sabrina handles the itinerary and I bring the chaotic positive energy. So being a bitter witch about homecoming was a clear violation of our otherwise perfect arrangement.

She and I have always been the odd couple. We’ve been the only two Middle Eastern kids in our group since seventh grade. Sabrina’s Assyrian, I’m Persian. I’m a whole foot taller than her. She was an athlete, I got a C in PE. I’m unconcerned with logistics. She revels in the details. Which is why she now manages my stock portfolio.

She’s the last to leave the club but the first at sunrise yoga. Pocket-sized but mighty, she’ll fight any injustice, including being denied entry to a club.

Once in Mykonos, she spent hours trying to convince an ATV rental guy to give us our own four-wheelers while I was experiencing such a debilitating hangover that I excused myself to puke in a nearby alley. Unfortunately, everyone heard my retching. And Sabrina still made the case for why I was perfectly fit to operate heavy machinery.

The girl loves an activity. Game nights. Craft nights. Music and wellness events. Just yesterday, Sabrina informed me that she’d spontaneously booked a party bus for Halloween. I am to drive to her house in Venice, get on said party bus, attend the event downtown, spend the night back at hers, take a sewing class the next day (? literally what), then drive back to the East Side. Glad that’s sorted…

But she knows that I’m a terrible planner. Not to be confused with being antisocial. God forbid I find out something happened without me. I just want zero of the administrative labor.

Clearly a trait I did not inherit from my mother, our family’s planner-in-chief. She’d throw a party for a successful root canal. Full production. Open bar. Intricate outfits. And without notice, I go from lounging daughter to involuntary intern, cooking a full eggplant parm for her dinner guests while coming off anesthesia from a colonoscopy. (It still slapped.)

My friends and family usually flood the group chats with plans but as my friend Corey says, every attempt to confirm with me is met with a frantic “IDK, COREY. I DON’T HAVE MY CRYSTAL BALL RIGHT NOW.” I’m sorry but why are we putting deadlines on leisure?

Birthdays, holidays, group trips. Everyone cares so I feel like I should too. But caring takes soooooo much effort.

And what even is Halloween? As kids, it was a way to ditch homework and demand candy. Then you get older and the candy is replaced with alcohol and thirst traps. Halloween becomes an entirely different monster with so many contradictory rules. Like being anyone but yourself while also proving how individual you really are. Fine. But like… in a hot or ugly way?

I outsourced the question to my Instagram followers. Most voted hot. I agree. You think anyone’s going to look at a #2 Ticonderoga and be like yup, gotta have that.

But if I’m not niche, am I culturally illiterate? How about I just show up in a crop top and whiskers with my screen time plastered to my forehead? Would that satisfy everyone? Haven’t I suffered enough? Can we just be five shots deep at the function already? I’m tired. Should we just stay in?

That simply isn’t an option this year. I’ve been invited to both a house and warehouse party. The details have been figured out for me. I have no excuse. I must circumvent the horrors of the holiday and suck it up.

So if you’re in the same boat, might I interest you in…

A Hater’s Guide to Halloween:

1. Group Costumes Require Clear Communication — Make sure everyone agrees on the theme’s interpretation. Otherwise four of you might come dressed as Victoria’s Secret Angels while one shows up as the manager of the Glendale Galleria location. (although kinda fire?)

2. When in Doubt, Stick to the Classics — Vampires and witches are timeless. But leave the ghosts on Raya.

3. Don’t Make Your Niche My Homework — No offense, but if I don’t get it on the first try, spare me the TED Talk. I’m being polite because you’re blocking the bar.

4. Clear Your Schedule — Nothing like waking up late for a meeting, still covered in fake wounds, and deciding the only solution is to scrub your chest raw with a pumice stone. Now they’re real. Sorry I’m not into knockoffs.

5. Shop Your Wardrobe — Remember that hideous shirt everyone told you not to buy? Who’s laughing now?

6. You Don’t Have to Commit to the Bit — I once showed up to a party as Mia Wallace. As did every other girl there. No problem. I chucked my wig in a bush and said I was Michael Jackson.

7. Don’t Chase the Party — Just when you've conquered the bathroom line at party #1, someone's already called the Uber to party #2. Now you're nauseous in the backseat, pissed that your crush didn't see your highly original take on Shrek with a Kris Jenner facelift. And you have to pee. Again.

8. Get Your Photos, Then Get Popping – Snap the group shot before 11. By midnight, everyone should be deep into mischief. We have an extended Halloween thanks to daylight savings. If you slide into the DMs during the extra hour, did it even happen?

9. If You’re Hosting a Party, I Want a Production, Baby — Give me a haunted house. Smoke machines, strobe lights, scary bits. I rose from the dead to be here. Now wow me.

10. Don’t Be a Goblin – Someone took initiative so that you didn’t have to feel like a loser. The least you can do is participate. Even if it means taking a sewing class the next morning.

Oddly enough, writing this essay has made me… dare I say? … excited? Though I will not be making any special accommodations. I’ll do anything to avoid a Spirit Halloween. The fluorescent lights. The smell of stale plastic and chalky makeup. The half-open bags of fishnets and capes. I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

Friday, I’m going to a witchy house party. As we’ve previously established, I’m Persian so my mostly black wardrobe and general aura are already fitting. The next night’s theme is Enchanted Forest. And of course, I already own a tree-shaped crop top that I bought at a random boutique in France.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from a lifetime of exceptional organizers, it’s that sometimes complaining is a stepping stone to greatness. Kidding! It’s that somebody has to care enough to turn fun into an occasion. Thankfully, Sabrina booked the party bus. And when I told my mother about my packed schedule, she nearly cried with joy.

“Thank God! I’m so bored by your constant stream of dinners. Why not something fun, like a themed party?”

Right, well we might have two different definitions of fun… but I’m going to try to be a little less resistant this year. As long as I get some cute pics. I’m obviously not showing up as an uggo.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

For the record, I occasionally handle logistics for Sabrina, too.

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An aversion that still haunts me to this day. I will literally get on my knees and deep-clean my oven just to avoid an assignment. Then I’ll spend all night completing said assignment with obsessive conviction, both terrorized and invigorated by an impending deadline. So I obviously started a weekly newsletter. It’s better than a cocaine addiction.

Anyway, back to first-grade me.

I’d successfully convinced my parents that extracurricular activities would interfere with my social life, leaving my afternoons largely unregulated. I’m pretty sure Lizzie McGuire had just premiered, so I had to dedicate my after school time to Her Majesty. And after Lizzie, I could catch the Sister Sister reruns. As you can see, my schedule was quite packed.

I decided the smartest solution to my homework problem would be to rip out the middle two pages of my take-home packet and turn it in with the first and last pages done. Easy. Now I could get back to Lisa Landry refusing a snack because “a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips.” What Lisa failed to mention was that a moment of deception is a lifetime of correction.

I didn’t know you could go into cardiac arrest at age six. But there I was in class, watching in agony as my teacher graded our assignments. She stopped at one, looked puzzled, then moved on to the next. Okay... interesting. Was I maybe getting away with it? Absolutely not lol.

At the end of the school day, my teacher waved me over to her desk to ask why the middle pages of my packet were missing. I could’ve led with my heart. But I haggled with the truth, declaring it just came that way.

“Right, so then what is this?” She pointed disapprovingly to two jagged edges of ripped paper still stuck in the staple.

There is no greater humiliation than getting caught in a lie. Like you really thought you were slick, huh? I had no choice but to confess. My eyes welled up with tears and I broke down about how guilty I felt. How reckless I was!

Before my teacher could scold me, I’d already sentenced myself to five years probation. At which point I’d be on my way out of this place and she’d never have to see me again. Her vile, deceitful student! She felt so bad she let me redo the assignment and sent me off with a hug. And that’s when I replaced lying with self-punishing. Healthy...

But I decided lying just simply wasn’t worth the headache.

Unless, of course, you ask my ETA. Then it’s always going to be fifteen minutes, give or take three hours. And to my friends who have my location yet still feel compelled to ask... why are you doing this to me?

Then there was the time I got caught sneaking out in seventh grade. And ninth. And tenth. But isn’t that just keeping my parents young?

I also once shaved a few pounds off my intake forms before surgery. Then I realized that lying about information relevant to anesthesia was beyond idiotic. I woke up sobbing, thinking I was mid-procedure: “I’m so sorry I lied about my weight!” The doctor assured me the surgery was over, rendering my mortifying confession unnecessary.

And just yesterday, I told the Trader Joe’s cashier I liked her ugly earrings yolo.

But do those count? I don’t know.

Who cares if I lied to the Trader Joe’s cashier, right? It made her feel good. But how far can we stretch that line? I’ve spent the better part of my life convincing myself that I’m an honest person. But if the preceding confessions are any indication, perhaps I’ve simply gotten better at negotiating the conditions of my honesty.

If the stakes are low enough, I’m okay with getting caught. But I’m terrified of a real lie. One I have to nurture and grow until it’s fully planted as the truth. I can’t tell whether it’s the dishonesty itself or the responsibility of maintaining a false reality that scares me more. Does it matter?

For reasons varied and vague, we’re extremely forgiving of our own dishonesty, using HomeGoods platitudes like “Give yourself grace,” while serving as rigid prosecutors for everybody else. When someone lies to me, I’m offended that I even believed them. How could I be deceived? Have I always been this easily deceived? What does it mean to be deceived? Is deceived even a word? I’ve said it so many times now...

Sometimes, the difference between a lie and a reasonable explanation depends entirely on who’s presenting the evidence. Truthfully, we’re all unreliable as fuck. Even in a documentary that promises to be objective.

[CAUTION: This section contains spoilers. Feel free to skip ahead to the list]

In the nearly three-hour documentary, You Can See Everything, Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim attempt to uncover the truth about disgraced Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes. The film opens a Pandora’s box of batshit moments, including a character study of her partner Billy, who I would actively vote off any and every island despite his valuable physical fortitude. But much of the movie’s tension centers on one conveniently vague word: can.

Holmes stands ten toes down, defending her claim that Theranos’ technology can theoretically run every test it claimed to, just not in practice. It’s like saying I can become a pop star while never having recorded a single song. Everyone can dream.

More insane to me is Holmes’ unwavering commitment to the lie that she’s never lied. Girl. Come on. Part of me wonders if Holmes has gone so far down the rabbit hole that she’s both the captor and the victim in her own twisted StockHolmes syndrome™.

In true Fielder fashion, he approaches the documentary with comically litigious precision. But just when you think he might really be the most objective person in the room, he reveals a tender scene with Elizabeth that he deliberately withheld until the film’s final moments. Which makes you question what else he chose not to show us.

The film goes even further by bringing in Amanda Seyfried as a third point of view on Elizabeth. Seyfried previously delivered a career-high performance in The Dropout, relying largely on public interviews to understand who Elizabeth was. But what’s a performance of a performance?

There are always three versions of the truth: yours, mine, and whatever really happened. But who gets the final say on who you are: you or the people who perceive you? If it’s the latter, I’d like to strike 2015–2017 from my personal record, thank you.

I guess honesty and truth aren’t necessarily synonymous, which brings me to…

The Anatomy of a Lie:

1. The Bald-Faced Lie — No fucks given. You know it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. Facts are just opinions with vibes. See: our current administration.

2. The Convenient Omission — Was it honorable that Tony Soprano invited us into his therapy sessions? Sure. Did he skillfully exclude the colorful details that would’ve led to a federal indictment? Absolutely. Thank God he was ashamed of therapy. Otherwise, we’d have to endure the three most harrowing words in the fuckboy lexicon: “My therapist says...”

3. The Loophole — Everyone remembers the infamous “We were on a break!!!!” line from Friends. Yes, Ross, technically you and Rachel were on a break. And I genuinely believe you were so devastated by your split that there was simply no other option but to hook up with the random Xerox girl three hours after parting from your soulmate.

4. The Dramatic License — Basically every major event in the Real Housewives franchise. The great negotiators of our time. These ladies are experts at delivering WILDLY different accounts of the same event. But replaying the footage can’t possibly capture every nuance, can it? Who’s to say what really drove Lisa Rinna to smash her wine glass, Teresa Giudice to flip a table, or Aviva Drescher to throw her prosthetic leg across a restaurant? There’s levels to it, baby.

5. The Noble Protection — Yes, you have gained ten pounds. No, I will not be confirming that out loud.

6. The Future Faker — You make plans you have absolutely no intention of keeping, but the future hasn’t happened yet, so let’s just hope you actually get sick the day you’re supposed to show up.

7. The Method Actor — Hilaria Baldwin. Enough said.

8. The Sudden Amnesia — It’s quite remarkable how many murder trials seem to hinge on the phrase “I cannot recall.” I’ve never killed anyone but I imagine it’d be pretty hard to forget.

9. The Strategic Confusion — Burying your explanation under 500 irrelevant details is a great way for someone to forget the original question. We all know where we were when Erika Jayne dropped the iconic “Tom’s house was broken into…” run-on sentence that could rival a Shakespearean monologue. Absolute banger.

10. The Reverse Uno — You get caught in a lie but somehow become so offended by the accusation that the other person ends up apologizing for asking in the first place. As they should. I’m a mental gymnast. And I’m going for gold.

I’d like to think you made it through this list without recognizing yourself. But you’re human and shit happens. Not all lies are created equal. Some are noble, some are convenient, and some are truly shady.

Maybe Elizabeth Holmes has become so lost in the labyrinth of her own deception that she genuinely can’t find her way out. Maybe the Housewives have simply mastered the art of being wrong with enough conviction to feel right.

And maybe I wasn’t really ashamed of lying in the first grade. Maybe I was just horrified by the literal paper trail.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

I once hit a pole at a gas station and felt so guilty about leaving a scratch (and scared of being arrested for a hit and run) that I returned hours later to confess my crime. The attendant looked at the rundown pole, then at the considerably larger dent in my car, and laughed.

“I think you have bigger things to worry about.”

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I’d put this man on a PIP after date number two, giving him one final chance to win me over. But after arriving at a movie an hour early, meandering around the parking lot, and feeling absolutely no urge to kiss him during the snoozer of a film, I decided maybe this wouldn’t end in romance. It didn’t even end in free snacks.

It always hits you like the violent morning sun after a bender: the sobering reality that you’d be 100%, if not 150%, fine with never seeing someone again.

Unfortunately, that someone was looking at me so tenderly, so earnestly, it made me want to vomit. I swallowed my guilt. Then the migraine set in as soon as I tried to formulate my exit plan.

I cycled through the classics: “I need to focus on myself.” Or “Work is crazy right now.” But then I remembered I was a college student with a career in partying.

So I moved on to a more honest excuse: “I can’t really put my finger on why, but being with you makes me feel like I’m drowning inside of an active volcano.” Too harsh.

I then considered a more forgiving approach, like “I have a terminal illness.” Ugh. No. I was way too Type B to keep track of the follow-up lies. And, you know, karma.

With no viable excuse, I resorted to monologuing about the movie in grave detail, concluding that I’d never see it again. Secretly hoping my date would understand I didn’t want to see him again, either. Instead, he took my chatter for mutual attraction because he was a normal person receiving normal cues. And in a gesture I’m sure he pictured as insanely slick, he wiggled off his silver bracelet and tried to shimmy it up my wrist.

I politely declined. I was more of a gold than a silver. But he smiled. “Take it as a souvenir of our great night. Or as collateral so I can see you again.” Incredible. I didn’t know my movie ticket included a one-way trip to hell.

He managed to accessorize me with his parting gift, and when he dropped me home, I was sure a side hug would signal my disinterest. As if a side hug isn’t the most common hug in a vehicular configuration. I ran straight inside and face-planted onto my bed. How the hell was I supposed to get out of this one? We had three more classes together before I could fade into obscurity.

The next morning, I banished the bracelet to a forgotten drawer after discovering it had left a dark green halo around my wrist. Great, I was literally allergic to him.

During our final three classes, I made sure to sit by the exit and slip out early. By the last class, I thought I’d made a safe escape. But there he was, standing in the quad with a friend, waving me over like it was a damn town hall.

I made polite small talk, and when my future-ex-boyfriend kindly asked about my summer plans, I told him I’d be gone for the foreseeable future. A little here, a little there. I then realized this meant I’d have to block him on Instagram since I’d really be in LA all summer. And I’d obviously be posting thirst traps.

His friend smiled at me like he was onto my ruse, so my legs moved before I could formulate another lie. “Have a great summer!” I yelled over my shoulder as I walked away. Oof. Did I just hit him with a HAGS?

To my horror, he followed up by text to say it was nice to see me and to let him know when I’d be in LA again. I decided that without the threat of school, I was now free to be a stranger. Poof. Gone. Who was she? An amicable breakup he knew nothing about.

Then, a few weeks later, I got another text.

He was sorry to bother me, but wondered if he could come by and grab his bracelet. Why he was so desperate to retrieve something with a confirmed history of turning my skin green was beyond me. But I was no thief.

Despite being fully available, I told him I was swamped at my internship, where my primary responsibility was watching clips of The Bachelorette and turning them into memes. Apparently, no matter how hard you try to avoid it, everything circles back to “Work is crazy right now.”

I told him I’d leave the bracelet for him to collect, shoved it in my mailbox, and spent the rest of the day screenshotting photos of JoJo Fletcher crying as she chose between the other Rodgers brother and an insufferable guy who looked like he started a Venice run club.

Then, another text. My date had gone by to grab the bracelet, but it was missing.

I assured him he was mistaken. I’d definitely put it in the mailbox that morning. In an old envelope…

That might have been addressed…

To me.

Fuck.

The mailman had been by that morning. I literally waved to him. How does that even work? The stamp was used. Where was the envelope going? I had no choice but to tell my date that his bracelet had entered the postal abyss.

Suddenly, I was a customer service agent tasked with locating an item of “great sentimental value.” I mean, it certainly wasn’t worth anything financially.

Every week or so, I’d check in with him, delivering disappointing updates and profusely apologizing for my blunder while conveniently ignoring the fact that I was still very much in LA. I guess I should’ve believed him when he joked that the bracelet would be collateral. It was basically a glorified ankle monitor. And in trying to avoid one uncomfortable conversation, I’d accidentally entered into a monthlong throuple with him and the United States Postal Service.

In the end, we never found the bracelet. He was kind enough to let it go, thanking me for my effort, and never once making me feel like an asshole.

I did that all by myself.

Ghosting in dating is generally unacceptable. Making someone feel seen only to disappear without explanation leaves them questioning their own intuition. What they thought was mutual suddenly feels like a misunderstanding.

That said, there’s a difference between rejecting someone after a first date and calling it quits after five. The first warrants a brief acknowledgment of their time and a polite nod to incompatibility. No one needs an essay about how much you enjoyed the small talk and how you wish them success in all future endeavors. By date five, a little more context is owed. Time, effort, and a few personal details have likely been exchanged. Everything in between should be handled proportionally.

Sadly, every break-up text will feel a little HR. There’s no elegant way to say, “And for these reasons, it’s a no from me.” But does every termination deserve a formal performance review? Or can the trial period simply end?

What about the relationships that fall outside the usual bounds of love, work, family and friendships? How do we navigate a mismatch in intentions with a casual acquaintance, a hairdresser, or the person we gave our number to at a bar? When does someone’s expectation of us become an obligation to respond?

I posed the question to my Instagram followers: Is ghosting ever justified? The majority said yes. And when I invited their most outrageous ghosting stories, the responses made a compelling case for disappearing.

When we’re on the receiving end, ghosting feels like an attack on our character. When we’re the ones ghosting, it’s an honorable boundary. And sometimes, we work so hard to avoid being cruel that we accidentally create a catastrophe.

So, for the sake of everyone’s time and your good karma, I present…

The People You’re Allowed to Ghost:

1. The Girl You Met in the Bathroom — You trauma-bonded, made plans to take a heated Pilates class and start a beaded anklet business together in Sardinia. You were six martinis deep. Neither of you remembers the other’s name. No worries.

2. The One Who Circles Back — If you’re committed to ghosting, go with integrity. Don’t resurface three weeks after a date and make me feel like I won a date with you at an auction. It’s a no from me. Unless it’s been a long winter.

3. The Promoter — They got you into the club. They showed you a good time. They’re not coming home to meet your parents. Let it die love x

4. The Slow Fade — If our conversation has disintegrated into the weather and variations of “that’s crazy,” I think we’ve both submitted our resignations.

5. Service Providers — You have two options: I disappear quietly or I go full Karen. So enough with the “you’re due for a visit” messages, or I’ll hit you with a STOP.

6. The Group Chat That Won’t Die — The bachelorette came and went. The bride is on her third child. Why am I still receiving sunset photos from Susan, the random bridesmaid?

7. The Favor Chaser — If your entire text thread consists of “omg sorry I forgot to respond to your last text but [insert favor]” messages, consider charging a subscription fee for your services. Otherwise forward all future requests to spam.

8. The Unsolicited Suitor — Thank you for your recurring offers to be my sugar daddy. I appreciate your confidence in our future happiness and the consistent fire emojis on my stories. Unfortunately, I’m not quite that desperate yet.

9. The Guy at the Bar — If I meet you at a loud, low-lit bar, chances are I’m not willing to move the interaction to a second location. Unless it was truly electric, I usually give out my brother’s number then check in the next morning to see who’s texted. If no one has, I lowkey feel slighted. Who ghosted who?

10. The Person Who Won’t Take No for an Answer — I’ll say it nice, I’ll say it twice. If you ask me thrice, blocking will suffice. (Unless you’re a promoter <3)

Sometimes we spend more time justifying our inaction than addressing the issue head-on. It’s like cheating on a test (before AI). You’d spend so much time programming answers into calculators and memorizing cheat sheets that, by the time the exam rolled around, you’d done far more work than if you’d actually studied.

And sue me, but sometimes I'd rather be ghosted than receive a weirdly formal message about a casual experience! Other times, the silence brings out my deepest insecurities. The absence of answers is fertile ground for a wandering mind…

So maybe the golden rule isn’t one-size-fits-all. Who really knows how they want to be rejected? Sometimes it’s easier to be the victim than the villain. At least when you’re dumped, everyone’s on your side.

But who’s there to comfort the girl who lied her way through an entire summer and lost a man’s most prized possession?

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

There was a guy who would always make plans with me, only to ghost when it was time to meet. Finally fed up, I left him a haunting voicemail one night while waiting curbside for my Uber. I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. I couldn’t remember any specifics other than repeatedly calling him Casper…

I immediately began spiraling. Why didn’t anyone stop me? My friends would have to answer for my crimes!

But somewhere beneath the shame, I knew I’d probably dropped a few bangers. The only solution was to double down. I placed my morning McDonald’s order and opened our texts:

“You gonna send me that voicemail or what?”

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The first time, I was 19. It was one of my first dates ever, with a cool film school guy who gave me two options: a moody dive bar in Silver Lake or a lively karaoke spot downtown. I let him choose, having learned from all the dating “how-to” guides that it wasn’t desirable to be picky. I told him, however, that if we went to karaoke, it was purely to observe. Under no circumstances would I perform.

The issue isn’t social anxiety. Shyness isn’t sanctioned in my family, and I’m a Sagittarius. The problem is that I’m a slightly above-average singer, which is the worst possible level of talent for karaoke. You have two options: be aggressively decent or performatively bad. Neither appeals to me as a former almost-pop star.

Yes, you heard me.

At 17, I made my mom take me to audition for The X Factor in Los Angeles. With her as my Kris Jenner, I somehow advanced three rounds, each time shocked to discover I had beaten girls belting “THIS GIRL IS ON FIIIIIIIIIIRE” perfectly on-key.

It quickly became clear the producers were less interested in my vocal abilities than in my chaotic relationship with my momager. When I accidentally admitted I’d been fired from a toy store for giving out too many friends-and-family discounts, my mother scoffed: “Sorry, we have a lot of friends.”

What was decidedly NOT Kris Jenner about my mother was that she felt compelled to inform the third-round producers that there was no way in hell I would skip college to become a pop star. Rest assured, she was immediately fired. And that’s why Dua Lipa is where she is today.

So naturally, public singing is kind of a touchy subject for me. Unless I’m several cocktails deep with lifelong friends or absolute strangers, I’d rather not lay my soul bare.

Which is why coming out of the bathroom to find my date at the front of the restaurant, a microphone in each hand, made me want to evaporate into thin air.

“There she is!” he announced, waving me toward the front. The place erupted in applause, as if I’d arrived at the end of his crowd work. Then the first few bars of “Genie in a Bottle” hit, and I realized I was in a hostage situation.

There was only one logical way out of this. Make it everyone else’s problem.

I started whisper-singing like the greats before me, immediately recruiting strangers to cover any notes requiring actual range. By the time the song crescendoed, I had sandwiched myself between a spirited group of Korean tourists belting along. I thought we were all killing it. Until my date scornfully yelled, “My date hates me! She’s running away!” into the microphone.

The energy instantly shifted. I even heard a few boos. This was no longer a duet but a duel.

When we sat back down, I reminded my date that I’d warned him against making me sing. Without missing a beat, he grinned. “Don’t worry. I have two more songs. Solo.”

I drank the rest of my wine, suffering through his greatest hits as he seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that he had forever ruined “Genie in a Bottle” for me.

After the date, I learned that being picky was much better than public humiliation. And for seven glorious years, I managed to avoid surprise-karaoke. Until I met a man who made the first guy look like an amateur.

The first left turn was when he ordered a piña colada at 8 p.m. on a Thursday in the dead of winter. When I made a joke about it, he got defensive. Great... this was going to be a long one.

Slurping his frozen drink, he informed me that there were only two categories of hot girls: thin and thick. He briefly paused due to a brain freeze, then informed me that I fell into the latter category. I nearly spit out my martini. But he wasn’t finished with his unsolicited performance review. My eyebrows were a bit too strong. My jeans could benefit from a lower cut. And my deep voice was on the cusp of sexy and annoying. If only I could work on my vocal fry.

I took a generous sip of my martini, then repaid him with my own analysis, informing him that his energy toed the line between “is this a bit?” and “are you actually this psychotic?”

When the server approached with the bill, she admitted that she and the rest of the staff had been placing bets on how long we’d been dating. Her guess? Two years.

I snorted. Apparently, we had great chemistry. Maybe that’s what happens when you never want to see someone again.

After drinks, my date walked me home, and when we got to my doorstep, he asked to use my restroom. I obliged because I'm a good person and I didn't feel like I was in danger. He was my height.

I showed him to one bathroom and used the other myself.

When I returned to my living room, I found him standing in front of my TV with the instrumental version of Grover Washington Jr.’s “Just the Two of Us” cued up, ready to serenade me.

Before I could muster a response, he launched into a full song-and-dance routine. I stood there, agog, as he twirled around my apartment singing in a strained alto. When he finally finished, I applauded, hoping to signal the end of the evening.

Unfortunately, at some point during dinner, I’d made the fatal mistake of revealing one of my favorite songs was “I Will Survive.” So he queued it up, telling me that I owed him a performance in return.

Cornered, I performed a haphazard rendition of the ‘70s hit, complete with choreography designed to usher him out the door. But he didn’t get the hint. So I told him I had a curfew. In my own apartment. At 27.

When he asked to see me again, I thanked him for his thorough assessment of my entire personhood but told him I didn’t quite feel a spark.

The next morning, I awoke to a Venmo request for half the bill.

By brunch with the girls, I was basically Paul Revere, foaming at the mouth with breaking news.

Everyone knows a bad date makes for a great headline.

First dates are already an absurd social experiment. You’re meeting a complete stranger to determine whether you might someday merge lives or accidentally unleash your freak.

And when it’s bad, it can be so good. Unless you feel unsafe. Then obviously leave. Otherwise, you’ve suddenly gone from romantic interest to investigative journalist, documenting the madness in pursuit of a thrilling story.

A boring first date, on the other hand, is frankly a waste of time and calories.

I put my theory to the test on Instagram, asking my followers which was worse: a bad date or a boring one. Of the 103 people who voted, 62% agreed that a boring date was the bigger offense.

Within minutes, my DMs became a compilation of dating disasters I now refer to as Now That’s What I Call Trauma! People recounted dates from years ago in forensic detail. And as the submissions poured in, I found myself cackling at the modern courting tragedies.

So, courtesy of those who lived to tell the tale, I present the Hall of Famers.

The Art of a Bad First Date:

1. The Overplanner — There is such a thing as doing too much. Selecting a nice spot for drinks or a light activity is thoughtful, but picking someone up at noon with flowers, then subjecting them to a full day at LACMA, a forced photoshoot, and a five-course meal where the entire restaurant sings “Happy Birthday” borders on kidnapping. Keep it to two drinks, one location, and no flowers. A first date should never last longer than a 9-to-5.

2. The Method Actor — Sometimes bits are fun. They’re a product of good banter. But there’s a reason they’re called bits. They’re meant to end. One reader took a girl on a date to an escape room (which might be worse than karaoke, but I digress) and suggested they roleplay as members of Pablo Escobar’s crew. Somehow, his date interpreted this prompt as “woman with Southern accent” and committed wholeheartedly to the role. She refused to break character long after they’d escaped, carrying her Southern drawl through dinner despite his gentle suggestions that they return to reality. As a rule, method acting should be reserved for pretending you’re enjoying the date.

3. The Woo-Woo One — Listen, LA is full of basic astrology chicks. I proudly subscribe to that club. But it’s a little unusual when a man brings a girl back to his place and casually reveals that an entire wing of the house is sectioned off to preserve his late mother’s energy, right?

4. The Fraud — One reader went on a date with a man who claimed to be a 25-year-old doctor. As the evening progressed, his résumé began to unravel. Turns out he was a 30-year-old nurse who allegedly lied because “nobody respects nurses.” UM. Nurses save lives! Liars are lethal! At least he came clean. I once went on a date with a man who refused to tell me his age, instead offering to let me guess within a five-year range. When I guessed 33–38, he nodded along. The next day, my cousin discovered he was 42. Come on, people. It’s modern times. I can find your blood type with a first name and a mutual!

5. The Opportunist — Men should always pay for first dates. Sorry, I said it. It’s about the gesture, which is why the recipient of said gesture should keep it chill. This isn’t your excuse to run up a tab. One reader’s date insisted on a pre-dinner donut stop before ordering the most expensive cut of steak on the menu and housing three different desserts. Girl, did you come for a shot at love or to break your intermittent fast?

6. The Accidental Catfish — What happens when you show up to a date thinking you’re meeting someone else? That’s the problem with not saving numbers. One reader agreed to a date with a man she’d confused with another guy she was interested in. When she realized her mistake, she pulled off the performance of a lifetime. And what was she rewarded with? A man who lectured her for not wearing heels (to R&D Kitchen, pls) and told her she’d have trouble finding a husband if she didn’t cook three homemade meals a day. Lol. I hope he finds the superwoman who will serve him salmon in stilettos.

7. The Hothead — I’m partial to lovers not fighters, so I can only imagine what one reader felt when her date’s argument with the man in the neighboring booth escalated to the point where the other man took off his shirt, ready to fight. It’s just like... who wins in that situation? And where is security?

8. The Monologuer — We’ve all been there. I’m sure I’ve done it. Actually, I know I’ve done it. But then I remember conversations are a two-way street. One reader went on a date with a man who punctuated every sip of his drink with another tale about his career. She nodded along until he finally asked about her line of work. She told him it was a long story, but she’d share if he was interested. He said no. OK PERIOD, KING. NO IS A FULL SENTENCE! After dinner, she set off on foot, unaware that he was walking behind her while she gave her sister the tea. He overheard her less-than-glowing review, startled her with a “Hey!” then headed straight to his car, leaving her to walk home alone. Come on, if you’re going to monopolize someone’s evening, the least you can do is offer them a ride home. But only in silence.

9. The Trauma Dumper — There’s being emotionally available, and then there’s being held emotionally captive. One reader went on a date with a man who got so drunk he unloaded years of unresolved family trauma before collapsing into her arms, sobbing. She showed up expecting drinks and left with a crash course in psychotherapy. She works in finance.

10. The Two-Timer — If you’re living a double life, best not to choose a popular restaurant for your bad behavior. One reader was out with a man when an irritated woman approached their table to tell him that her friend (we’ll call her Sally) was trying to reach him. Flustered, he didn’t notice the woman discreetly slip my reader a note, which alleged that he’d declared his love for Sally, failed to disclose an STI, and ghosted her just days earlier. Horrified, my reader made him call the poor woman, then slipped away to join the girls at the neighboring table. Days later, my reader found out he’d told Sally he was only meeting up with an old fling to end things while also asking my reader out again. Is it time to reboot John Tucker Must Die?

Let these stories be entertainment, not cautionary tales. In a world so measured and algorithmic, there’s something refreshing about the spontaneity of human connection and its inevitable disasters.

There’s also great freedom once the possibility of romance dies. The pressure is gone. The fun can begin. So what if it doesn’t work out? Now you have another piece of amazing lore.

As we’re reminded in one of the greatest films of our generation, A Cinderella Story:

Even if the game ends in karaoke.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

I once tried to escape a date midway through dinner at the Black Cat in Silver Lake by hiding in the bathroom, only to lose my nerve when the managers offered to sneak me out through the kitchen. Instead, I swallowed my pride and returned to the table.

He looked up at me. “Did you get my text?”

I checked my phone. It read: “All good in there? Or did you fall in?”

All I blurted was, “Baby, that’s just IBS,” before sprinting to my car.

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To be fair, I thought the edibles at the bottom of my purse were expired, so sue me for having three times the recommended serving size! Do labels mean nothing anymore?

Unfortunately, I had (and still have) the lethal combination of time blindness and the general audacity. I thought I’d given myself just enough time to make the flight. Then I got high. Then, at the check-in counter, I realized I didn’t have my ID.

The airline agent looked at me as if it were offensive that we were even breathing the same air. I mean, it kind of was. I was rambling about how I must have left my ID at Taco Bell the night before. But why would I do that? You don’t need an ID for tacos. And I definitely used my fake to get into the bar—

I stopped myself. Not the appropriate overshare at this exact moment in time. The agent asked me to step aside so an officer could escort me through TSA.

I stared out at the airport, soaking in my final moments of freedom after I’d surely be arrested for public intoxication. Everyone seemed to be in the trenches: rowdy families, chaotic bridal parties, couples fighting over who made them late.

It dawned on me that airports were just Vegas casinos. Time was an illusion and people were free to express their worst impulses. Both places were also hotbeds of Ambien and morning liquor.

Ugh, I was going to miss this in prison.

A man suddenly appeared like the Grim Reaper in a hideous blue vest. “MA’AM!” he yelled, presumably for the tenth time. “I’m here to escort you through TSA.”

First came a verbal questionnaire. Then they would thoroughly search my bags. I handed my purse to the TSA man, who smiled deviously, warning me that he’d leave no crevice unchecked. Okay freak.

A woman administered a pop quiz that was both random and personal. Like whether my parents had a pool in their backyard. Unfortunately, the THC was compounding at lightning speed, so I couldn’t even remember if I knew how to swim. On the bright side, apparently I had a fast metabolism.

I prayed to whatever God would answer the call and for once I wasn’t sent to voicemail. I passed.

My relief lasted roughly forty-five seconds before I spotted my fake ID peeking out of my half-zipped wallet. My purse was slung over TSA Man’s shoulder, my desert-themed Arizona ID taunting me with every step. We were about five people from the scanners when I realized this would be the most embarrassing way to go down.

Remember Nikki? She got arrested at LAX for trying to fly high with a fake. Loser.

I could NOT be a loser. I lived away in a big city. I was basically a hometown celebrity. And a stupid fake ID from Tucson (but really from China, mailed to me inside the stitching of a wallet) was not going to take me down.

I was going to need two things: flattery and a diversion. I searched for anything to latch onto. But all TSA Man gave were one-word responses to my inquiries. My hearing was succumbing to my pulse. My vision narrowing. “You have a great smile,” I blurted. His jaw hit the floor. So did mine. WTF WAS THAT?!

Flustered, I dropped my phone and it spattered across the floor, inches from him. There was my diversion. I smiled helplessly, hoping I would land more as a damsel than as a person who just awkwardly hit on airport personnel. Luckily, TSA Man knelt over to pick up my phone.

I leaned forward, trying to be stealthy despite my racing heart, and secured the ID just as he was about to stand up. We were headed for a collision. It was all over for me.

Then… a divine intervention.

TSA Man stayed kneeling. I traced his gaze to a traveler ducking under the ropes. A stickler for the rules, TSA Man scolded the cutter and sent them to the back of the line, giving me time to throw my fake ID in the trash can beside us.

When TSA Man finally handed me my phone, I laid it on thick, “I hate troublemakers.” He nodded. He did too.

I passed through the scanners and finally made it to my gate, free to board and enjoy my edible. No surprise, I was one of the last people on the plane.

What did surprise me was the row of smiling nuns who greeted me as if they knew something I didn’t. Maybe there was a God after all?

Or maybe I was just high.

Ten years later, I’m still fundamentally a chaotic traveler. Partly because I don’t want to spend one extra second in an airport than I have to, partly because I have no real concept of how long it takes to get anywhere. I ride on blind faith and a good attitude. Even if I’m a frequent crier.

At my luckiest: I’ve had a plane held for me in Peru and a gate reopened at Burbank. At my worst: I’ve suffered two medical crises and nearly missed a flight while literally sitting at the gate.

I am a neurotic traveler’s worst nightmare.

The neurotic arrives at the airport before they’ve even been assigned a gate. They check the passport drawer every night before a trip “just to make sure.” They avoid checking bags whenever humanly possible, pack their own snacks, and genuinely enjoy the lounge.

Naturally, the chaotic and the neurotic always end up married.

Which actually restores the balance of an otherwise lawless land. While one spirals over a delayed flight, the other quietly apologizes to the gate agent. And somehow it always ends in an upgrade.

Airports create a temporary society where almost no one knows you or will see you again. They’re a bizarre litmus test of character, revealing who you are when you’re late, hungry, heartbroken. Let’s be honest, we’ve all been down bad in transit.

So I’ve made an Airport Guide to keep us from descending into total anarchy. Or becoming the subject of another viral TikTok.

How Not to Be the Worst Person at the Airport:

1. If you’re TSA, stop yelling at me! This entire process is like Whac-A-Mole. Especially when I have to maneuver around people who are somehow still confused about the liquid limit 20 years later. Also, can everyone be civilized and put their bins away??

2. Good customer service requires both sides to act right. I once arrived at a wedding weekend in Rome with no clothes to my name and an hour to find an outfit after the airline lost my bag. Luckily, a Canadian customer service angel named Cheryl handled my case. We struck up a quick friendship, chatting once a day while she tried to locate my suitcase. I gave her hot wedding gossip and she regaled me with stories of her motorcycle trip through Italy. What did Cheryl deliver? $500 a day in reimbursement and free therapy.

3. Ribs for breakfast are obviously outrageous. Morning liquor is just brunch. And bringing fish on a flight should result in a lifetime ban.

4. Toes on a plane are arguably worse than snakes. I don’t care if you’re flying straight into the lobby of the Four Seasons Anguilla. If you are allergic to sneakers, you can wear slides with socks. And never, ever walk barefoot. The fact that I even have to say this is insane, but here we are.

5. Respect the rules of your seat. I’m a self-aware aisle seater. I’m claustrophobic and very well hydrated. I know that also means getting up when others want to use the restroom. But I once set up my entire meal (and 3 beverages!) on my tray during dinner service, and it was at that exact moment the lady in the window seat asked to use the restroom. Was this her first day on Earth? Could she not have waited ten minutes for me to scarf down my cheap wine and stale couscous? Could I even say no? The kind teen in the middle seat helped carry my items because it was physically impossible for me to do so solo. And of course, the wine spilled all over him. Which leads me to…

6. If you’re in a middle seat, I’m sorry your life sucks. You can have the armrests, but don’t make your legs my problem. And don’t speak to me. Unless you’re my soulmate. But then why would you be in a middle seat?

7. The Deplaning Hoverer. Coach is already a battlefield. And worst of all is trying to exit said battlefield with a heathen breathing down your neck. If you have back problems or a tight connection… fine. To the rest of you, what is your end goal here? Deplaning is a single file situation. So if I am still sitting and you are three rows behind me, why on God’s green earth are you standing? Furthermore, if you are a man looming over me, I’m going to assume you’d also push me off the escape boat of the Titanic. With that said, if it’s your turn, MOVE!

8. The Baggage Claim Hoverer. Just take a step back and breathe. If you see your bag, people will make space for you. Rest assured, no one wants your duct-taped fuchsia Samsonite. And unless you have a duct-taped fuchsia Samsonite, you better check that bag tag.

9. Seat grabbers. If the only way you can stand is to aggressively yank my seat back, maybe it’s time to consider your local Pilates studio. Yoga is great too.

10. In general, everyone needs to step up. We used to be a country. If I’m struggling with the overhead bin, offer a hand. If my bag’s two pounds overweight, let it go. If the plane’s delayed, don’t breadcrumb me with fake departure times like a toxic ex. And if I ever end up on your TikTok, I will sue.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

I wish I could say things have gotten smoother since edible-gate, but sadly I hit rock bottom at the Nice airport this past summer. I was on my way back from a wedding (shocker) and running on pure fumes. Alone with three pieces of luggage, I was heading up an escalator when my suitcase toppled onto me, knocking me into my carry-on, sending my duffel flying, and tripping me again. Thus began my never-ending descent on an ascending escalator while being pummeled by all of my baggage. If that isn’t a metaphor.

The airport stopped the escalator, and I stood up to a sea of concerned faces. I insisted I was fine despite my crimson face and rapidly swelling foot. The medics examined me and determined I’d need to be wheeled to my gate.

They dropped me off 45 minutes early and told me to stay put until someone could transport me onto the flight. I wanted to limp to a café but then I considered the optics… So I clumsily wheeled myself over and immediately got stuck between two tables. Then I felt a drip. And another. I looked up. There was a leak. Perfect.

The man behind the counter felt so bad he wheeled me around to pick out my food, then safely delivered me back to my gate.

At Heathrow, I was handed off to a wheelchair attendant half my size. I felt terrible about my dead weight, but she told me I was light. So I obviously loved her.

By Newark, I had fully surrendered to the system. My next attendant belted along to whatever was blasting through his AirPods and whipped me around like we were in GTA as I clung on for dear life.

By the time I collapsed into my Uber, I was somewhere between irony and agony, laughing through my tears. My driver looked at me in the rearview mirror and threw me a bone, “You have a nice smile.”

:)

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My Persian mother, who in her own words loves to “dress like a cake,” flutters around in a dress you could spot from outer space, second-guessing my updo, which is very helpful since there is literally nothing I can do about it now. My dad’s eyes well up with tears at the sight of me in my dress and the final itemized bill. Did we really need ALL of these flowers? My mother assures him that we do. Just like we need the ice sculpture and the saxophonist.

My brothers poke fun at me and I kindly remind them of the “do not discuss or I will end you” list for their speech. Nothing crazy, just 50 topics they can’t cover and a gentle reminder to turn every flaw into casual flattery. Like saying my biggest weakness is caring too much.

I catch myself in the mirror. Wait. Do my arms look fat? I suck in my armpits and gather myself.

The orchestra strikes up as the wedding party sashays out before a sea of guests. I take in the size of said sea. I was hoping for a modest Mediterranean but am met with the mighty Pacific. Someone is definitely wearing white, but I’m only mildly annoyed because I know it’ll be a scandalous topic for brunch tomorrow. After all, a wedding guest only has two jobs: endless glazing and juicy gossip.

I would know. My name is Nikki Kashani and I am a Professional Wedding Guest.

Over the last decade, my family and I have collectively attended over 150 weddings: everything from 30-person backyard celebrations to shotgun weddings in Vegas to several-hundred-person destination affairs in France, Spain, Turkey, England, Dubai, Italy, and Mexico. Remote locations like Sun Valley, Park City, and Beverly Hills. One 1,000-person event. A range of ethnicities, religions, and astrological backgrounds.

I’ve sung, I’ve officiated, I’ve done choreographed routines. I’ve been a hero: I got a massive red wine stain out of a wedding gown with only dish soap and a dream. I’ve also experienced various medical emergencies like nearly going into sepsis on a plane back from Cancun with the entire cast of Vanderpump Rules. Or taking such a nasty fall down an escalator in Nice, I had to be wheeled through three international airports on my way back to America.

I have a separate closet full of gowns ranging from black tie to cocktail to cultural attire. At this point, I curate wedding guest dresses the way others knit. One of them somehow made it into French Vogue >.< You can follow along here for weekly dress picks: Nikki’s Bridal Edit.

While the Wedding Industrial Complex will sell you on the scale of a wedding to determine its glory, I believe the vibe always supersedes the spectacle. Don’t get me wrong, glamorous backdrops are wonderful set dressing, but true success lies in the social contract between hosts and guests. It can stiffen a glamorous event or liven a modest one. That interplay is make-or-break. So I’ve boiled it down to 10 basic rules of engagement for your reference.

Notes From a Professional Wedding Guest:

1. Logistics

• If your wedding requires a plane ticket, you must provide three events (welcome party, wedding, brunch) + transportation for the wedding day and a hotel block.

• If you are Persian, please lie to your guests and give them a hefty cushion for arrival time.

• It is incredibly rude to cancel at the last minute. Unless you’re the bride, that’s brutal. But also kind of rude.

• Unless explicitly allowed, no babies.

• Don’t complain about your seat assignment. If you hate being at a boring table, maybe look within as to why you might be a boring friend.

• Registry or Venmo for gifts. Although cash or check is pretty sexy. Jury’s out on gifts for travel-heavy weddings. But what’s a Le Creuset to a hotel upgrade?

2. Dress Code

• Like my aunt once said, “You should always match the effort of the host. It’s just basic decency.” You cannot ask people to show up in black tie to a cocktail event. And vice versa. But being overdressed is always better than being underdressed. For life in general.

• Yes, you can wear red to a wedding, although it is traditionally reserved for the bride in many South Asian cultures.

• No, you cannot wear white unless it’s significantly patterned. (Yes, I know I’m wearing white in the article cover photo. I’m not a psycho. See section 8.)

• If you wear passable-cream, you’re rage baiting.

• Don’t text the bride about anything dress code related before the wedding. She’s already fighting for her life. However, brides that want a curated look should send out a vision board with the wedding website. But be responsible with the options.

• Men should find a funky way to stand out from the sea of suits. Fun bow ties, chic brooches, cool shoes. Obviously consult with your partner if applicable.

3. Phones

• Silence your phones.

• Do not post ugly photos of the bride and groom even if it’s your hottest photo of the night. Everyone knows what’s going on. Crop accordingly.

• This is a genuine question for married couples: what are your thoughts on people recording you on their phones as you walk down the aisle? Sound off below.

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4. Vibe

• High. Otherwise you should’ve RSVP’d no.

• If you’re single, be prepared to have your love life examined like a David Attenborough documentary then get a lecture on how helpless our generation is. It’s fine. Just #leanin and see if they have a cute nephew.

• If you meet a crush, do yourself a favor and sneak away for a night stroll. A dance floor connection is basically an arranged marriage. The dowry’s being negotiated.

• If you’re looking for brownie points, find the parents. They love the attention. But don’t trap the bride and groom in a long conversation, your presence is far more valuable on the dance floor. You have an open bar to hit.

• If there’s no open bar, I’m simply not coming.

5. Music

• Hot take: DJ > Band

• Both are obviously preferred, but not every song needs the cover-band treatment. If I want to hear “It’s Britney, bitch,” I want to hear Britney, bitch.

  

6. Speeches

• Keep. Them. Short. Pick two reps from each side to get the job done: one family member, one friend. They can recruit others but they still need to keep it moving. Cocktails are hitting and this is when the night can go from turn up to tired.

• Don’t try to land a controversial plane. If you’re not 200% certain that you’re funny, now’s not the time to test out a tight five. Save it for a bad first date.

• Leave the gauche stories in your blackmail folder. Speeches are a cheat code for the bride and groom to attend their own funerals: everyone they love tells them how amazing they are while they’re still alive and glowing.

• Let’s bring back cancel culture for the phrase “For those of you who don’t know me, what are you even doing here?” Boring!! (although I have said it).

7. Food

• Never enough food. Food is nutritious. Food is delicious. When there is no food, I get suspicious. Weddings are a marathon, not a sprint, and regardless of whether you’re on a GLP-1, it’s impossible to entertain at the bar or fire up the dance floor without enough sustenance. Especially if guests are expected at 4:30pm.

• Ideal Food Schedule:

  • Cocktail Hour - passed apps

  • Reception - more apps

  • Dinner

  • Cake / Coffee / Tea

  • Late Night Snacks - preferably of the greasy variety

  • Open Bar

• The best entrée I’ve ever eaten was at Calamigos Ranch, a Malibu institution. It was a Szechuan-style salmon so delicious I wrote about it in the guest book. I still get emotional thinking about it.

8. Bridesmaids

• Tbh not into matching dresses but dealer’s choice. My cousin went full Kardashian for hers and we all wore white (told you I’m not a psycho). I did look pretty good though, ngl.

• Okay, actually not done with this topic. I can get behind a color theme, but isn’t it kind of cultish for everyone to wear the same dress?

• Either way, whatever the bride chooses goes. If you don’t want to participate, opt out. Complaining is boring.

• Get drunk. But please don’t throw up.

9. Groomsmen

• Make sure the groom knows he locked down a baddie.

• If you’re single, respectfully flirt with my single friends. Or my grandma.

• Just because you’re having a reunion in tuxedos doesn’t mean you’re back in the halls of Sigma Chi. Keep it classy.

10. Family

• Be chill. Please.

The last one may be the hardest. Every wedding is just a family’s high-octane high school theatre production. Backstage is madness, the show is dazzling, and the reviews come in hot the next morning. But a great show requires a great audience. So have fun, look good, and play by the house rules. It’s okay to be a little controversial, but never be a headline.

[A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR]:

It’s wild to think about how many weddings I’ve participated in and who will participate in mine. We’re going to have to make some tough calls. Sorry in advance.

I don’t know what it will feel like to be a bride. I also don’t know when that day will come. I’ve narrowly escaped the child bride wave of those who’ve committed under 30. I’m now in the second wave of stressful group project energy. And I don’t see that ending until I’m knee-deep in an Aperol Spritz on my honeymoon.

Hopefully, the party is a success and all of this fieldwork pays off. I won’t know until I get there because my mother will obviously plan the entire event.

See you at the open bar.

xo,
Nikki

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