Nashville

I'm like, "heather, pedal." She's trying to pedal and text and drink her beer all at the same time. She's like, "Chill," and I'm like, "K," and Erica goes, "Whoo!"

We haven't gotten the photo yet. How hard can it be, right? I want it to be exactly like the one from Miranda's bachelorette party here last year. In fact, her photo is the whole reason we decided to do this weekend in Nashville instead of in PCB. But I'm getting worried. It's our last night, and the best pic we got so far is no good because I'm not in it.

I can't believe when I first saw Miranda's picture I didn't even know what a Pedal Tavern was!

Do you think we're burning more calories than we're drinking? Miranda lost twelve pounds for her wedding and she looked superhot. She did it by huffing Glade, however, which is so, so sad. Jason's too sweet, he keeps telling me I shouldn't be so hard on myself. He's like, Babe, you have got months to lose the weight, help me finish these pizza rolls. But I'm pear-shaped, which is totally hard.

Heather juggles her beer and phone, taking a picture of another party on a Pedal Tavern that screams at us before they disappear behind a city bus with Brad Paisley's face on the side of it, and now she's the one who's like, "Pedal, girls! We need some manpower, bitches!"

I keep a picture of my wedding dress taped to my mirror, as incentive not to eat. It's a mermaid dress, backless, plunging neckline with a chapel train and a slit up the side so you get a peek of the garter with its crystal leg chain. As Heather says, it's drop-dead hot. She talked me into buying it a size too small, which is insane, because it is costing me four months' rent, and I'm never going to fit into it if I keep loading the carbs the way I did at brunch yesterday . . . Oh! Brunch was such a disaster, Heather and Erica have been blaming one another for it all day, I can't even think about brunch. We were supposed to go zip-lining afterward, but at the last minute we found a pole dancing class to go to because I was like, Girls, I've got to do something to work off that French toast. Of course, Jen, everyone said, it's your weekend! And that's where we got our best picture by far: Heather's on the pole with her hair cascading down and everyone's crouched around her—except klutzy me, who was out at the reception desk getting ice for my ankle, which I came down on funny, trying to do a move. But they all look A++++, said everyone on Instagram.

But I can't complain. I have the best friends in the world. And this weekend is going to be the most epic bonding experience ever.

Heather and Brock: you should have seen their wedding. She went with a totally simple beautiful beach ceremony. For one of the pictures the groomsmen rolled up their pants cuffs and got in a line in the ocean and held her horizontal in front of them, everyone laughing. It's blown up huge and hanging above her mantel now. She and I are still not totally straight after a fight we had a couple of weeks ago. Brock told her that he thought Jason was a tool and not take-charge and that I deserved better, and Heather repeated it to me. Right? Who does that?

The fight ended with Heather crying and saying, I just want you to be happy. If you would just get boobs to balance out your hips, you'd be so much happier, I don't see what the big deal is, you'll get them done after you have kids, anyway. I was like, only half passive-aggressively, If I was as beautiful as...