You spend forty years climbing the corporate ladder, worrying about quarterly reports and who’s getting the corner office, and then you find yourself stuffed into a pale lavender dress that makes you look like a very expensive grape. You know that feeling when you're just... there? Like a piece of furniture? Sarah and I were "best friends" in the sixties, and apparently, that’s a lifetime contract with no exit clause. We haven't had a real conversation since the Bush administration—the first one—but here I am, standing at the altar because she needed four women on her side to match the four guys on his. It’s a numbers game, really. Just like a budget meeting, but with more tulle and much worse wine. You look at her—and she’s "beaming," obviously, because that’s the job description—and you realize she doesn't actually know your last name has been hyphenated for a decade. Or that you retired three years ago. We’re standing there during the vows and I’m looking at the back of her head thinking, "I am literally a placeholder." I’m a human decorative element. It’s like when the CEO keeps that one VP around just because the org chart looks lopsided without her. You aren't there for your "wisdom" or your "friendship," you’re there for the SYMMETRY. It’s hilarious, in a kind of "I want to walk into the ocean" way. Like, I’ve managed multi-million dollar accounts and now my primary contribution to the world is standing three feet to the left of a floral arrangement so the photos look balanced. During the reception, you try to catch her eye, but it’s all PR. Pure branding. I tried to bring up that time we stayed up all night in high school, and she just blinked at me like I was a stranger asking for directions and then pivoted to talk about the caterer. You know when you’re in a performance review and you realize the boss hasn't actually read your file? That’s the vibe. I’ve been relegated to the "legacy" folder. I’m a file she forgot to delete but keeps moving to new hard drives just in case she needs to show she has a history. It’s a total farce, you know? But what are you going to do, walk out?