A Heartbroken Temp at Brides.com DRIVING across the George Washington Bridge in the spring of 2006, with everything I owned in the trunk and Manhattan shining in the distance, I might have been the most clichéd girl in America. I tried not to dwell on the fact that I had no money, no apartment, no job. A friend was gracious enough to let me stay with her until I found a place of my own, and I immediately signed with a temp agency, hoping to find a job in publishing. One morning, my phone rang. It was Lori from the agency. "I have the perfect opportunity," she said. It's on the sales side, and I know you're looking for edit, but would you be interested? "Sure," I said. Looking back, I remember thinking that this was the point where I thought I was being flexible. What magazine is it for? Brides.com. It wasn't Lori's fault that she didn't know the implications of this. Part of me wanted to tell her. You see, Lori, I was supposed to be married in September, beside a lake between green mountains. I had a dress and a wedding planner, a band and a caterer. I had a house not far from the beach in Charleston, S.C., and a black dog named Riley. What's more, Lori, I had a fiancé I really loved. I had all of these things, until he changed his mind. Now my entire life is packed into boxes in my best friend's room, which, oh, by the way, does not even have a door. And you want me to work at Brides.com? Yes, I'm familiar with the Web site, all of those beautiful photo galleries of flower arrangements. Oh, and that Deco-inspired photograph with the silk gown and the old theater in Miami? I love that retro look. I was going to wear a blusher veil and antique gloves. My dress was Alençon lace with a sweetheart neckline. There were going to be Champagne grapes. It would have been perfect! But all I said was: "Really? Great. When do I start? My first day, I was escorted to a small, white cubicle plastered in Tiffany blue magnets in the shape of engagement rings that read, "Weddings are all we think about, too!" I worked with tech support to set up my e-mail. Then I suffered from it. Each morning, the subject line "Brilliant Idea of the Day" loomed in my in-box. Receptions! Flowers! Registry! I made a note of the ones that made me want to cry and took pride as this number declined with each passing week. Make your ceremony more accessible to your guests by facing the crowd as you exchange your vows, or seating guests in a circle instead of traditional rows. This one bothered me, even in week three - aside from being a very loose interpretation of the word "brilliant," it reminded me that I was supposed to get married in an old gazebo. Our guests were going to surround the gazebo and we were going to stand inside, together. But I held back the tears. I held back the tears when I found myself stuck in the elevator with a rack of wedding gowns, full of tulle and promise. I held back the tears during a Brides.com staff retreat to the Catskills that was nothing like a honeymoon. What finally did it was an e-mail with a subject line reading "This Week: Well Groomed." It said: "You've been dreaming of planning your wedding for years - your dress, the flowers, the cake, the ring. The fun stuff. But what about your groom? How will he look? It occurred to me that, for me, the almost-bride, that question would never be answered. I knew the dress, the flowers, the cake, the ring: Monique Lhuillier, wild, tiramisù, platinum. In all the images that bombarded me, day after day, he was the only part I couldn't see. I would never know how he'd look. I might never even see him in a tuxedo again. So I did what any self-respecting woman who cries at work does. I hid in the bathroom until it stopped. Occasionally, I got the silly idea to tell one of my colleagues my story. I always mentioned it lightly, hoping she'd laugh. But no one ever did. Instead they just looked uncomfortable, as if I had casually stated I preferred letterpress to engraving, or that I thought Vera Wang's latest collection lacked vision. These painful moments as the almost-bride always made me wish there was a succinct title for what I was. Brides-to-be get fiancée; brides-that-were, divorcée. I wanted an "ée." Just a simple word to explain myself to all the Loris of the world, something to save us from the details. Liz McDaniel is a writer and comedian.