Last weekend, I did my maid-of-honor duty and went with my best friend, Chelsie, to try on a bridesmaid's dress.

She was trying on a beautiful veil and it was starting off to be such a lovely occasion — until it was my turn.

As I wiggled into the skirt, I realized I was going to have trouble as I tried to slide it over my soccer legs and, ummmm, "pleasantly plump" posterior.

I managed to zip it up by sucking in my stomach, and then I couldn't let it out. I couldn't breathe.

I must have let out a squeal or something, because the shop owner charged into my dressing room and began sizing me up. She went to grab the tape measure, then announced I had gained an inch around my waist.

With a familiarity only someone who has taken your measurements could assume, she started firing off questions: Are you bloated? Eating more?

No! Yes!

As I shuffled penguin-style — the skirt wasn't letting me separate my legs more than an inch — and somehow managed to climb a few stairs to the top of a little platform so everyone could stare at me even more, I learned, for the first time, how I hated three-way mirrors.

It seemingly exposed every individual stitch in my panty line, which was in clear sight for the shop's two workers, the owner, and Chelsie.

Then one of the workers rechecked the list and said, "Oh, did you say Leila? I thought you said Rei." (She's a much tinier bridesmaid in the party.)

Thankfully, my real dress fit. It was even a little loose.

That didn't stop the owner from again proclaiming that even if the first dress was the wrong size, I still needed to cut back on my salt intake. Didn't want to gain any more inches around my waist.

My mom did a really great job in raising me to be a confident woman, but this was pushing even my esteem way low. I'm not super skinny, but I work out at least five days a week — enough to be a healthy size for my 5 feet, 6 inches. After I told her the story, she was a good mom and said, "But you're so skinny!"

When I was playing soccer for the University of Hawai'i, we had an affectionate term for the week and a half that preceded school, where we were practicing twice a day.

"Hell Week."

I think I'm in for a hell month. I've never been in this situation before, as a bridesmaid in someone's wedding. But if last weekend was any indication of how this was going to go for me, I was in trouble. Next month, I have three bridal showers for Chelsie on consecutive weekends, and a bachelorette party.

How am I not supposed to eat?

Reach Leila Wai at lwai@honoluluadvertiser.com.