Two days before our wedding, my now ex-husband informed me that he had invited his brother and sister-in-law to stay with us for the next couple of nights in our teeny, tiny apartment (which was now filled with gifts and strewn with the remains of all of the last-minute crap that comes with getting married). Oh, and could I tidy up a bit before they got in?
Prior to this day, I’d only had one real bridezilla moment in the 14 months we’d been engaged. It had happened when the ex insisted that we pay $7 apiece to rent red silk napkins that matched our table runners. Apparently, the provided white cloth ones were “too plain” and the red cloth ones (only $1 extra apiece) didn’t match. Now, up till this point, I’d acquiesced on most of the decisions regarding the venue, décor, date, music, etc., because he had “a very detailed vision” as to how his wedding should be. My vision was less specific and really only included a top-shelf martini bar, reusable bridesmaid dresses, carrot cake, and tons of dancing. Oh, and I wanted “Pour Some Sugar on Me” as the cake-cutting song.
I calmly informed him that I wasn’t about to shell out $1400 for silk napkins when they DON’T EVEN WORK (hello, absorbency?). I’d pony up $200 for the red cloth ones, if it made him happy. But, honestly, anyone who was going to judge us because the red cloth didn’t exactly match the red silk a) needed to get a life and b) shouldn’t have been invited anyway. He responded by telling me I was “ruining his wedding.“ I responded by launching into an expletive-filled tirade that left me without a voice. We didn’t speak for two days, then settled on red cloth napkins.
Fast forward three weeks… I was determined to hold it together, though the thought of playing hostess while finalizing all of the last minute crap and getting the house in order before our honeymoon made me want to mainline Xanax. Thursday passed uneventfully, as did Friday morning. Two hours before the rehearsal dinner, though, I got a text informing me that the ex and the in-laws would be home soon and they all still needed to take showers. This is when I became unhinged.
I jumped in the shower and turned the water to somewhere past scalding, determined to passive-aggressively use up all of the hot water. As I thought about the situation I grew angrier and angrier. I was hurriedly swiping my razor down my right leg when I felt a sharp stinging pain. I glanced at my ankle and saw nothing unusual. So I looked at the razor and saw… skin. A HUGE chunk of it. I looked back down at the tub and saw copious amounts of blood pouring out of my Achilles. I immediately jumped out of the tub to assess the damage, and my leg gave out. I hit the floor, hard.
I screamed for the ex to no avail; though he was home, he’d shut the bedroom door and was vacuuming. So I wrapped a towel around the wound and crawled, naked, out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, leaving behind a trail of carnage on the white carpet (goodbye, security deposit!). When I got to the door, I opened it a crack and came face to face with the brother-in-law (or technically face-to-shin). His utter shock at seeing me bare-ass, dripping wet and on all fours would have been hilarious had I not been in so much pain.
It took superglue, athletic tape, and half a roll of gauze to finally staunch the bleeding. Luckily, the wound was high enough on my heel that my wedding shoes didn’t irritate it, though the saltwater in Hawaii stung like hell. Five months later the marriage was over, but one lesson WILL stick with me forever…
NEVER shave your legs while angry.