good decisions.

I am a horrible decision maker.

Not so much in the sense that I frequently make bad choices, though I've certainly had my share of those. In fact, some of my worst decision making has played out on this blog for everyone to read. Eating beets . . .driving a stick shift through the ghetto . . .kissing a guy with a mustache, just to name a few.

What I really mean by "horrible decision maker," is that I have a difficult time making decisions. Always. About anything.

I blame it on being a Libra - we're indecisive by nature - but I'm starting to suspect that this could just be a Stephanie thing.

Writer Richard Bach said, "Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives."

Statements like these haunt me; that fear that every choice I make, regardless of how seemingly insignificant, could somehow come back to bite me in a negative way is debilitating. So much so, that even the simplest choices like what I'm going to order at a restaurant or what kind of car I should buy become a very big deal.

The few times I have allowed myself to go with the flow long enough to make decisions quickly and without a lot of thought, the outcome usually ends up costing me a lot of money and/or heartache.

I prefer to weigh my options, analyze the pros and cons, and really stew it over.

No surprise, then, that choosing a college to attend became an ordeal of epic proportions full of all the drama, tearful conversations and sleepless nights of an ABC after-school special. I treated this decision as if my selection might also cure cancer or bring about an end to world hunger.

When I finally did commit to the University of Georgia, the first school I'd really ever wanted to go to before I had ever even visited, I was instantly plagued with fear. Add typical freshman homesickness into the mix, and I spent the first semester of my college experience convinced that the challenges of being away from home for the first time were only happening to me because I'd made the wrong choice.

I was 18. I was an idiot.

Once I allowed myself to have fun and enjoy the awesomeness that is Athens, Georgia, I quickly realized that choosing to go to school there was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Not because I got a great education that prepared me for an exciting job and not because Athens is a beautifully charming town, though both of those things played a role. But mostly because it is here, surrounded by these beautiful, intelligent, hilarious women I call my friends that I became the person, the woman, that I wanted to be.

We had the college experience that I thought only happened in the movies - complete with ridiculous antics, bonding moments, and embarrassing stories that we will be telling for many years to come.

Like Bach said, there are some choices we make that we'll have to live with over and over throughout our lives. If that is true, then this is one choice I can I very much live with.

In May, I celebrated (read: agonized) the ten year anniversary of my graduation from the University of Georgia. My girlfriends and I decided to go back to Athens for the weekend for a reunion of sorts. Really, though, it was a celebration of all the questionable decisions we made after we made the very good decision to befriend one another.

On an otherwise quiet weekend, we blew into town like a hurricane, proving to ourselves and everyone else that in addition to holding down successful careers, maintaining healthy marriages and raising happy children, that we are also still very much capable of a good time.

And sure enough, there were more very important decisions we had to face.



When a couple of over-served college girls told us we were "soooo cute," and that they hoped to look as good as us when they were "our age," we decided as a group to be flattered by their remarks, even though I really wanted to say, "You could be so lucky to look this good in ten years."



Chocolate martinis at East West followed by dancing in (and on) the bar - both excellent decisions. The bartender may not think so -- making that martini is a huge pain-in-the-ass, but smile sweetly at him, tell him he's cute and he'll get over it.





Walking right into our sorority house and making ourselves at home when the back door opened on its own might not have been the best decision. But we didn't get arrested for trespassing, and it's a great story, so I'm glad we did.




Renting our own private room at Shokitini to sing karaoke was, for anyone listening to us shouting lyrics into the microphones, a bad decision. But Trish and I achieved the evening's high score with Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb," even though we're both tone def, so maybe it was a good decision after all.

A Bloody Mary brunch, dinner at Last Resort and a late night snack at The Grill - yes, yes, yesssssss.




I realize choosing UGA and loving my college experience is not necessarily indicative of sound decision making skills.

I mean, doesn't everyone love college and think their college town is better than everyone else's?

Probably, but unless they also went to Georgia, they would be horribly misguided and wrong.



Ten years removed, I don't suspect my days of making bad choices are completely behind me - I still cringe about outfits I wore last year and I still cry over stupid boys.

And much to the dismay and frustration of everyone who knows me, I'll probably always stew over the tiniest decisions, from what clothes to pack for a weekend trip to what flavor coffee creamer to buy.

Yet somewhere between Friday's impromptu Happy Hour, Saturday's shopping trip, and a Sunday visit with our team's newest addition and her mommy who unfortunately had to miss the weekend fun, it occurred to me that when it comes to the decisions that really matter -- the where, how and with whom I spend my time, my choices have been right on the money.



After all, these are my beautiful friends.





This is my glorious college town.





And that was one wild, super fun weekend.





All very good decisions, indeed.

Day 335: Group Dates

The morning of Day 335, Mark, Jen and I woke up at 7am to meet their running group for a three-mile run to the beach.

I'll admit, getting up early on a Saturday to jog is something that I wasn't all that thrilled about. It's also something that I never do in my regular life. I took it in stride (pun intended) and went along with this outing, adding, "exercising before noon on a weekend," to the list of things I'd never done before.

Plus Jen and Mark's running group is more than just a group of people to exercise with; the group consists of many of their friends they hang out with socially. And that was another reason I wanted to go.

The morning run was good, and perfect for the summertime since any later and it would've been too hot. Can't get much better than running through a golf course neighborhood to get to the beach. Plus, by 8am, the run was over, and we had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves.

I wondered if I could start a running group in Atlanta with my friends. I'll bet I'd be much more likely to actually run if it meant I could use the time to catch up with them and hear about what's going on in their lives. Currently, my friends and I catch up at bars, drinking beer and eating fatty foods.

After our run we stopped for coffee before heading back to the house. Mark drove me through some of the nicest neighborhoods in Ponte Vedra Beach, showed me where he and Jen go to church and the Ponte Vedra Inn, a hot spot for tourists in the area.

We returned home and lounged for a bit, ate some bacon and eggs, and then decided to go to the beach despite the less-than-sunny temperatures. I couldn't come all this way and not hang out on the beach at least for a little bit.

Mark, Jen and I set up our chairs and enjoyed people watching and chatting about nothing in particular. We observed a middle-aged couple walking in front of us past our chairs. As they first approached on the left, they seemed to just be taking an innocent, slow stroll down the beach engaged in a deep conversation. Once they got closer, however, I couldn't help but notice that the woman was the only one talking. The man kept the same walking pace, but he looked straight ahead and never spoke a word that I could tell. I'm not even sure he was even nodding, or that he could hear what she was saying.

I wasn't the only one who noticed this couple. Mark and Jen and I laughed amongst ourselves, assuming the couple was in a fight and the wife was really letting him have it. But she wasn't really yelling, just speaking intently; neither of them appeared to be unhappy, the conversation just seemed unbalanced.

A short time later, the couple walked in front of us again, and it was the same thing. The man stared straight ahead, the woman barely came up for air chatting his ears off.

"Oh man," I thought to myself, "Please don't ever let me be in a relationship like that."

I am a talker for sure, but I think that I would at least recognize (and stop) if I ever noticed I was having a conversation with someone who wasn't listening or responding at all. Mark, Jen and I started brainstorming what could possibly be going on with them.

"Maybe they're having problems in their marriage," someone threw out. Clearly. And the problem is the wife talks to much.

"Maybe he's deaf," someone else said. For his sake, I hoped that he was. She would not shut the hell up.

Whatever it us, we were amused. We were further amused when we packed up our belongings to head back to the car and saw the couple again, this time sitting in beach chairs under an umbrella. He had his chair tilted back. Hers was upright. She was still talking.

We stopped for frozen yogurt on the way home, at a place similar to Yoforia, because I was on vacation and that's what I do when I'm out of town: I eat.

The plan for Saturday night was for us to meet back up with Sean and Julie and our friend Scott (who was in town for work) and go to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city, and popular tourist destination north of Jacksonville. I'll save you a history lesson because truly I don't know it. I'll also save you too many details about how we almost didn't leave Mark and Jen's house after discovering that Footloose was on television.

But St. Augustine is where the Fountain of Youth is, and since I was already starting to notice my almost-30 skin looking a little tired and wrinkled, what better place to go? Only on our way into town, Mark and Jen drove right past it. They didn't even slow down.

"What about the Fountain of Youth?," I asked, surprised that the sign leading to the fountain was right across the street from a Pizza Hut and looked every bit as cheesy as something I might find in Myrtle Beach.

Mark and Jen said the Fountain is less than impressive, and not worth the stop. Still, I was looking forward to taking a dip and stopping time, keeping my face looking 29 forever. But I took their word for it, and decided it push came to shove, I'd just have to resort to plastic surgery.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

We parked our cars and hopped out with and started what Jen had already decided would be a St. Augustine pub crawl. That was the big thing that I did on Day 335 that I'd never done before.

On our walk to the first bar, I looked around and noticed how truly lovely St. Augustine is. The cobblestone streets, old buildings and palm trees made me feel like I was in Charleston, only with Spanish-influenced architecture.

We started our crawl at J.P. Henley's, a bar that claims to have the most beers on draft than any other place in St. Augustine. I believe it; I had a very hard time deciding what to order.

After a couple of beers there, we took off for our next destination. The walk during the pub crawl was one of my favorite parts of the evening. There were lots of people walking around and beautiful buildings and historical markers along the way. Our next stop was Taberna del Gallo (Tavern of the Rooster).

Taberna del Gallo is a 1740's Spanish Tavern. The waiters and bartenders dress in period costumes. We sat at a table outside and ordered drinks while Jen went on a search for a game that she said I must play while I was there. One of the waiters, dressed in knickers and a vest, located the game and brought it to our table.

The game, "Shut the Box," (I'm serious, that's what it's called) requires a pair of dice and a box with numbered tiles. The tiles, numbered 1 through 12, start standing up. She told me to roll the dice, so I did. I rolled an, "8," meaning that I then had to flip tiles over that equal the number, "8." Jen said I could flip a the "7" and the "1" or a "5" and the "3." The goal of the game, is to, "Shut the Box," and end with all of the tiles turned down, or come as close And my turn ended when I rolled the dice and could no longer flip down any tiles. The game was fun, and moved fast, and who doesn't love yelling, "Shut the Box," loudly in a restaurant full of tourists?

After we left Taberna del Gallo, we headed to dinner at Columbia, a restaurant specializing in Spanish cuisine and, according to Mark and Jen, very tasty sangria.

The restaurant was bustling with people and noise; dinner lasted several hours. I'm sure it was the pub crawl that made us think we were so hilarious, but we laughed a lot at that dinner. If I had been at any other table, I probably would've found our group obnoxious. We laughed at nothing, and everything.

The highlight of dinner, besides the food and drinks was definitely our peculiar waiter who unabashedly attempted to "up sell" us bottled waters and appetizers on in hopes to win a contest between the servers at all of the Columbia restaurants in Florida. I've been a waitress and I've participated in these ridiculous contests, so I felt for the guy. He just laid it out there. I've never seen someone work so hard for what I'm sure was nothing more than a $50 gift card to Best Buy and to be so shameless about it. He wanted to win this contest, and he didn't care if he put us on the spot and made us feel uncomfortable. We must've not cared all that much either, though, because we happily satisfied him and ordered bottled waters and appetizers, just like he'd asked us too.

I left full. And happy. But mostly full.

We stopped in Cellar 6, another bar/dance club for one more drink. I showcased some of my moves on the dance floor until I realized that the guy that I was dancing with was videotaping the whole thing and live streaming it on the web. I asked several times what the web cam was for, and when he refused to give me a good answer, I left the dance floor.

Shortly thereafter, we left St. Augustine and headed back to Ponte Vedra to Mark and Jen's. I was done. We were tired. It probably wasn't even midnight.

Again, another full day (and night) of activity in Jacksonville. That's what happens when you get up at 7am on a Saturday, I guess. I should try it more often.

Day 334: Really Good Decisions

Ahead of my highly anticipated trip to Jacksonville, I got an email from Mark, my childhood friend who is like a second brother to me. In it, he presented three options for my first day in Florida:

Option A: A friend offered me an opportunity to play golf at the TPC Sawgrass course for free (it usually costs $250)! It is an early tee time (7:30) and I would be the third person of the available four. There is one spot available for you if you want to play (Free).

A free round of golf on a course that the professionals play? Yes, please! My dad would be so proud and so jealous.

Option B: Jen was considering a spa outing. When you purchase any service (Mani, Pedi, Facial, massage, etc.) you can stay at the spa facility as long as you like and they have a really nice pool. Y'all could lounge at the pool after your treatment and then we could meet up for lunch. By the way this spa rocks we don't get to go very often but it is awesome. They also have a gym if you want to get up in there and work on your fitness!

I couldn't think of anything wrong with a day at the spa. Not one. Plus, I had been fairly stressed out at work, so a massage sounded perfect.

Option C – Do jack shit… wake up whenever and do whatever. Maybe ride some bikes to breakfast or just lounge on the couch.

Mmmm . . .bike rides . . .and breakfast . . .doing jack shit? I love them all equally.

Mark knows me. He knows me well. All of these options sounded like a perfect way to spend my first day in Jacksonville. There is no doubt that I'm a terrible decision maker, and with so many viable options, I actually had to ask Mark for more time to think about what I wanted to do.

I'll save you from the honest-to-God freak out that went on inside of my brain about which option to choose. My head is a dark, complicated place sometimes. Clearly a girl who stresses this much over such non-important decisions needs a trip to the spa. And just like that, my decision was made. I sent Mark and Jen an email; I told Mark to go play Sawgrass and told Jen to make me a massage appointment, preferably with a big, burly guy with strong hands.

I know all of you golfers out there are screaming at the computer, and there is a good chance my dad will never speak to me again after knowing I had the option to play golf for free and turned it down. But I think I made the right decision. I know I did. I mean, let's be serious -- I don't think my golf game is quite ready for Sawgrass. I don't think Sawgrass is ready for my golf game either.

Plus, Mark had to get up super early (he was already gone when I got up), and since I'd arrived so late, sleeping in was definitely a priority. Jen and I enjoyed a delicious breakfast (that included toast with cranberry lemon jelly which I instantly became obsessed with) and then we headed over to the Spa at Sawgrass.

One of my favorite things about spas is that moment when I first walk in and can feel the clam aura come over here. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and mint; it was like stepping into a bear hug or a cozy blanket. After checking in at the front desk, we did as Mark suggested and "worked on our fitness" for a little bit before rinsing off in the luxurious locker room.

I don't want to go on and on about this locker room, because that's just mean to all of you who weren't there. Plus, I feel like if I tell you how incredibly awesome it was, I might portray myself as some redneck country bumpkin who hasn't ever seen a spa before, and that's not the case at all. I've been to many spas; several, in fact, for blog challenges (facial, Brazilian wax, reflexology). I love spas, and have for many years. But this was the first time I spent a significant part of my day at one. I mean, we packed bags, unloaded our belongings into a locker, wrapped ourselves up with the soft robes and slippers they'd provided and then helped ourselves to lemon lime water and trail mix.

All this, of course, right before we lounged dramatically onto a chaise lounge and waited for our big, burly massage man to beckon us for our hour long massages.

At one point, I asked myself, "Who the hell do you think you are?" And then I laughed as I added it to the list of other times I've asked that very question throughout the year. Thanks to some very good and generous friends, I've done some pretty amazing things.

The generosity continued when Jen let me have the only male masseuse on staff that day; he wasn't particularly burly, but he was talented and I was completely relaxed. I dreaded the hour ending, but I left feeling renewed, rejuvenated and confident that whatever the price, it was worth it.

And the massage just kicked off the day. We decided to make the most of our time, so next, Jen and I changed into our bathing suits and alternated between the steam room and the Jacuzzi tub before heading outside to the pool. The weather was overcast, but that didn't stop us from ordering a glass of champagne and toasting to our good fortune.

Sipping champagne in the middle of the day by the pool was another one of Day 334's things I've never done before. And it was splendid in every way.

I couldn't help but consider, as Jen and I sat there talking about life, that the atypical kind of day I was having was probably ordinary to some people. I felt so blessed and so lucky to be there, but there have to be people who enjoy such luxury all of the time. I paused, my champagne glass in hand, and tried to think of a plan so that my life could include more mornings at the spa, so that I could be more like those people. And then feeling my relaxation and my sanity slipping away, I stopped myself and said a small prayer instead. "Thank you God, for making this day possible. And thank you for allowing me the perspective to truly appreciate it."

We finished our champagne and enjoyed long, hot relaxing showers in the locker room before headed back to the lounge to get ready for the day. We met Mark back at the house; he was giddy because he’d birdied a hole on his golf outing. I briefly thought I might’ve made the wrong decision about going to the spa, and then I remembered how much I suck at golf, and remembered that I absolutely made the right decision. We headed to lunch Palm Valley Fish Camp, where good decisions continued. We sat at the bar, I ordered a delicious shrimp salad, we sat outside on the dock and looked at the river. I was truly at peace, and halfway into Day 334 (Day One of Jacksonville), already having so much fun.

After lunch, we drove over TPC Sawgrass to see the course that Mark had played earlier that day. Admittedly, I love golf as much for the landscaping of the courses, the outfits, and the clubhouse as I do for the game itself. Our afternoon visit allowed me to enjoy what I love without ever swinging a club. So I managed to achieve several of those things without actually playing.

TPC is every bit as lovely as I would've expected it to be, and it's a golf course I've seen in photographs and on television many times before, I just hadn't realized it until I saw it for myself. The Players Championship tournament is played there every May and the clubhouse is full of portraits from past tournaments and clubs of previous winners. I immediately started planning my return to Jacksonville for the TPC. I may not be ready to play the course myself, but walking around and watching the professionals do it would suit me just fine.

By the time we were done seeing the course, we headed back to Mark and Jen's house for a little pre-drink cocktail (Shark Bites, Jen's specialty) and obviously some more relaxing.

Before leaving for Jacksonville, I connected with my friends Julie and Sean, who also live in Jacksonville. We went to their house before dinner where I got to play "matchmaker" for two sets of friends (that's right, I allowed my worlds to collide). Turns out, the collision was a good thing, and we all enjoyed tasty tacos and plenty of tequila at Taco Lu and made plans for the next day.

When I look back on that day, I guess I don't really have much to show for it. No souvenirs, and no pictures even of the beautiful places I went and the beautiful food I ate. (This is my fault, of course. I took pictures, they are just lost in the snow in New York).

But it was a full day. A full day indeed.

I'm a good decision-maker.

Day 259: Runaway Fan

I didn’t have the heart to mention in with Day 258, but the super cool, totally Euro World Cup party eventually turned into Kyle's Craft Hour late night after we (she, Elizabeth, Momo and I) realized there was still a great deal that needed to be done ahead of the baby shower we were hosting for Trish the next day.

See how this blog sometimes builds on itself? I worked on crafts at Day 258’s World Cup party for Trish’s baby shower on Day 259. That shower was for Baby Will, who I just saw in 3D at Trish’s sonogram on Day 257. Get it?

Kyle set up an assembly line on her dining room table and we went to work on these beautiful crafts that she had envisioned for the shower. Menu cards tied with ribbon, mason jars full of cookie ingredients, a wish book. There was a lot of cutting, a lot of tying, a lot of me trying to make exact replicas of Kyle's prototypes and failing miserably.

True, I had never gone to such great lengths for a shower before, but that's not what Day 259's thing I've never done was. I'm simply telling you about the crafts to make the point that this baby shower was No. Joke. Southern Living would have been impressed.

And though I technically was a "host," of this party, I am ashamed that because I lack the creative prowess of others, my responsibilities for the shower were limited to cut-outs of the name, “W-I-L-L,” that hung from a clothes line full of other baby clothes.

Kyle, Momo, Elizabeth, Chrissy, Heather, on the other hand, they pulled out all of the stops. This shower was top notch.

But all of the creative touches and hard work could've been for nothing as we all watched the shower come to an abrupt, potentially fatal, halt.

What happened was not what I could've predicted when I arrived at Basil's, a quaint Buckhead bistro where the shower was held, an hour before the party was supposed to start. I was the first one there, a fact I'd like to shout loud and proud because seldom am I the first one to arrive anywhere.

Guests trickled in, all impressed with how gorgeous everything looked. Trish was blown away, touched at the outpouring of love from her friends and probably still in disbelief that in a few short hours, she would become the owner of items with names like binkies and booties.

Day 259 was a hot day. By the time everyone arrived, we were all sweating, nearly melting. Thankfully, the staff at Basil's set up our table in the shade and right under an overhead ceiling fan. We took our seats and brunch was served.

Eating at Basil's was a first for me, and I was not disappointed. I thought the food was great, and the service was friendly. Despite the heat, everyone seemed to be having a great time.



Everything was going along as planned, when out of nowhere . . . BANG! Everyone at our table, and likely other tables, gasped and screamed. It sounded like a gunshot went off.

Only it wasn't a gun that we heard, but instead, one of the blades of the ceiling fan we had been so thankful for had broken loose and propelled through the air to land mere feet from our mother-to-be.

Maybe I'm reaching here, but this little experience was Day 259's thing I'd never done before. My first meal at Basil's, followed by almost getting killed by an active ceiling fan.

The manager frantically ran over to the table where we were sitting.

"Did any of the pregnant women get hurt?!," the owner said.

An understandable question, as I'm sure beheading any pregnant woman is not the best way to get chosen as Basil's "Employee of the Month." But is it wrong that in addition to the pregnant women, I was also concerned about myself and the women who weren't pregnant at all?

Not to mention, he's standing over us asking us if we're okay and the fan is still turned on, ready to shed another blade at any moment while we looked on with horror as it dipped and swayed in the stagnant air.

For the next minute and a half, all of the servers fumbled over themselves, trying to make sure we were okay, making sure the fan was turned off. And then turning it back on. And then off. It was a scene. I tried to just keep my head down and go back to eating but the little episode killed my appetite.

Brunch was over. Time for gifts.

The rest of the party went on without any more drama. I had to chuckle that all of this work for this beautiful shower, and it all could've ended tragically with one faulty fan.

Thankfully, though, it seemed the Crafty Gods were looking out for us.

Day 251: You Can Wear it Again

I have been a bridesmaid 12 times.

That means that in my adult life, I've thrown at least 12 showers, walked down 12 aisles, and yes, I own 11 bridesmaid's dresses (11 because Danielle told me to wear whatever I wanted.)

I get teased relentlessly at work for having participated in, and attended, so many nuptials, and I am often the go-to girl for any wedding related questions.

"Don't you get sick of going to weddings?," I am often asked. Nope. I really don't. I still genuinely love them, and am actually quite sad that since most of my really close friends have already gotten hitched, my days of "bridesmaiding" are numbered.

"How much money have you spent over the years on all of these weddings?," they all want to know. Truthfully, I have no idea, and I'd really rather not think about it. I'm sure it's obscene, but I'm also confident that it was money well spent.

My favorite question, though, "Where do you keep all of the dresses from the weddings you've been in?" Most are hanging in my coat closet. Some are at my parents' house and a couple have been misplaced (probably during a really fun wedding weekend) and were never spoken of again.

For the most part, the bridesmaids dress routine is the same five-step process every time: buy dress, alter dress, wear dress, dry clean dress, never look at dress again.

Since most of the brides I've walked down the aisle for have also been in their fair share of weddings, I have fortunately been spared the promise that their bridesmaid's dress choice will be the one that I can, and will, "totally wear again." My friends know that the likelihood of that ever happening is slim, because they have a closet full of never-to-be-worn-again bridesmaids dresses as well. So our conversations about the chosen wedding attire is much more direct, almost business like.

"Here is what I chose. No, you'll never wear it again. This is how much you owe."

Luckily my friends have excellent taste, and while the back of my closet compares slightly to Katherine Heigl's in the film, 27 Dresses, it does so in volume only, not in the ridiculous get ups her character was forced to wear. I've never truly hated anything that I was asked to wear, and even the dresses I questioned at first looked pretty good in pictures.

In two of the more recent weddings I'd been in, the dresses came directly from the pages of J.Crew magazine, making them perfectly acceptable frocks for something other than their initial purpose. But for whatever reason, I'd yet to overcome the fact that while it may look like a simple cocktail dress to everyone else, to me, it would always be Emily's bridesmaid's dress, or the dress I wore in my brother's wedding.

Until Dan and Karen's big day, I'd never worn any of these dresses again, but that's exactly what I intended to do as Day 251's thing I'd never done before.

The time had come for a bridesmaids dress redo.

I immediately narrowed down the choice to two possibilities, Emily's or Katie's. Both J. Crew, both brown (and therefore easy to accessorize), both had pockets (the greatest addition to a dress ever). Emily's dress was strapless and more of a satin material. Katie's was a halter-style, and a heavy linen.

Katie and I spoke on Friday over the phone and I told her my plan. She said she thought it was a great idea and was flattered that the dress I wore in her wedding was in the running for the dress I might wear to pull the challenge off. Then we discussed why re-wearing a perfectly normal looking bridesmaids dress is such a difficult thing to do.

"I feel about it the same way I think about turning 30," I told her. "I don't mind doing it, I just don't want anyone else to know."

The trick then to pulling off the redo was to change the look of the dress completely to make it more evening friendly and less "bridesmaidy."

On Saturday I went to a jewelry boutique in search of bold colors or big gemstones (or both) to achieve this tall order.

I told the ladies at Just the Thing what I was trying to achieve and they went to work immediately in search of something to turn an old bridesmaids dress into something special. I left an hour later with an enormous necklace, a cuff bracelet and a pair of earrings. I had no idea which of the three I'd wear, but they all matched each other, and I knew they'd match either Emily's dress or Katie's dress.

When I got home, I spent at least half an hour pairing different shoes and different accessories with each of the dresses. In the end, Emily's dress was the one I chose to wear a second time, with the necklace, bracelet, and a pair of bright orange shoes.

The outfit may have been a little loud, but there was no denying it did not look like a bridesmaids dress anymore.

"Wow," my friend Billy said as we were taking our seats for the wedding, "That is quite a necklace."

"Thanks," I said, touching the new purchase on my neck, ignoring the fact that what he said was likely not a compliment.

Another man commented on my outfit while I was standing in line for food.

"I just love what you're doing here," he said motioning with his hand at my ensemble. I smiled and thanked him. And then I looked at his wife and considered asking her if she was aware that her husband might be gay.

I received several other compliments and I could not help but feel that this was a great idea--a fiscally responsible decision and a creative masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Not one person asked if I was wearing a recycled bridesmaids dress, which makes me think that maybe it's time I cleaned out my closet and to give these dresses I've bought and worn only once a chance at a second life.

Probably what would best accompany a blog about an outfit that I wore would be a picture of me wearing the outfit, right? Well, yes, except genius over here completely forgot to take one, so I was forced to rip the only pictures I do have from my friend Billy, and also the wedding photographer.

Kudos to me for staying out of the photographer's line of fire, something that in the 60+ weddings I've attended, I've never been able to do. But stupid of me to not illustrate how a bridesmaids dress redo is completely doable. Hopefully you'll get the point by the pictures I do have. If not, you'll just have to take my word for it.