My sister is getting married this fall, and I am to be her maid of honor. These are precious, exciting days for my family, and for myself in particular, ever since I found out that I have the biggest boobs in the whole entire wedding party. Of course, I'm beating out a fourteen-year-old, a cousin who stands at all of 4'9", and a family friend who wears a size negative seven; but no matter, after spending eight consecutive years in women's schools, I have been in countless situations in which everybody else's WonderBra had far less WonderWork to do than mine. It will be nice to be a total object for once in my life. I grow weary of being judged on the basis of my character and intelligence.

I am enthralled with this business of being referred to as a "maid," whether I'm an honorable one or not. Maid Mary Beth! It is an archaic term, and a romantic one; therefore it does not properly convey my duties, which as far as I can tell basically consist of presenting my sister with potato peelers and monogrammed guest towels at regular shower intervals, and then, at the ceremony, shooting people who stomp on the train of her gown. Arrangement of the bachelorette party is also my department. The bride has made it very clear that she does not want any strippers involved. (You will note she did not specifically forbid the appearance of a male person showing up already naked.)

I am fairly pleased with my maid of honor uniform, a taffeta lilac affair with matching gloves. I have seen, and expected, far worse. The bride and I do not exactly share similar fashion tastes: she prefers to blend in with the nearest wallpaper and carpet, while I have never been known to pass an opportunity to be-sequin myself. This personality split goes back to our childhood, when even her Barbie dolls wore khakis and sensible shoes. (Mine were usually naked and headless.) And she has nightmares of being forced to appear in my own wedding dressed like Zha Zha Gabor's earrings. Which is ridiculous — at my wedding, the attendants will be attired in tasteful, ruffle intensive hoop skirts and shall carry parasols. Even the ushers.

Still, we managed to find a dress that satisfied everyone. I became an especially big fan at the bridesmaid's measuring session, which is when I made my fabulous By-Comparison Gigantic Hooters discovery. The chest issue isn't the only reason I'm excited about the wedding (although, judiciously, that's a substantial part of it). This is about the merging of two families. This is about the blessing of a union of souls. This is about me getting my sister's room.

It's a fine room, one with a marvelous view and a vast improvement, square-footage wise, over my current living space. It only needs me for improvement. It will be lacking that essential item, however, if the people who are building my sister's house-to-be don't complete certain minor finishing touches, such as lighting fixtures and shutters and walls and a roof. At this moment, as a matter of fact, her future home is a plane of winsome Ohio mud. There are no sewage lines. There's not even a hole to gaze forlornly into. There is just dirt, and sticks, and a forlorn Port-O Let in the far distance. "Well," the builder said, "in two weeks, you'll start seeing real progress." He said this four months ago. This is unsettling for all of us — primarily, for obvious reasons, me.

Occasionally my parents and I form a huddle and fret en masse. "What are we going to do?" is the most oft-repeated phrase, a question I always try to meet with words of level-headed comfort ("Well, they aren't living here"). It doesn't really matter much that the house may not be done in time for the wedding, because I can tell you right now that the ceremony itself is going to be delayed for days, if not weeks. This is because my father is in charge of beginning it. His only wedding-related task is to show up, and as recently as last week, he and I had the following discussion:

MY FATHER: (calling from work) When's the wedding, again? Don't tell your mother I had to ask.

ME: Of course not. (Hanging up) Mom!

(Later, at the dinner table)

ME: I'm nervous about being escorted down the aisle by the best man.

MY FATHER: Hey — who am I supposed to escort down the aisle?

MY SISTER: (Chokes him)

It's going to be a mess. But — and this is the important thing — once everybody's assembled before the altar of the Lord, I will be the most bountifully blessed woman up there.

Maid Mary Beth Ellis, SMC '99, is an MFA candidate in nonfiction writing at Bennington College.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

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