All Things Bridal

I casually picked up one of those bridal etiquette books in an effort to familiarize myself with the expectations that normal people would have for a wedding. I say normal because I do not fall into this category.

For years, I have looked for any excuse to avoid attending weddings. I think my abhorrence stemmed from one that I attended in the middle of a stifling hot summer after my second year of university.

It was an over the top Greek affair with twenty four attendants, three junior bridesmaids and three flower girls. The church was full of gardenias that while beautiful, emitted a cloying, nauseating scent which was rivaled only by the smell of Aqua Net in the hair of the bridesmaids. It was miserably humid and stuffy. The ceremony lasted over an hour mainly because the bride fainted twenty five minutes into it and we were all made to wait while they revived her. Now maybe it's just me but does it make any sense to squeeze oneself into a corset, pull on a fifty pound garment made of synthetic, non-breathable material, starve oneself and then show up in the dead of summer to a church notorious for it's faulty air conditioning system? By the end of the ceremony, I could feel the vein in my forehead throbbing in time with the priest's incantations. I would have sold my soul for a drop of water and a pair of flip flops. As nearly three hundred of us exited the church, I made a note to self:

No ceremony. Better to jump over broomstick and call it a day.

We were then expected to make our way to the reception which was located at a civic hall. From the parking lot, you could smell the blasted gardenias and I touched my forehead in an effort to sooth the vein that had begun visibly pulsating again. Once we crossed the threshold, waiters in traditional black and white could be seen circulating amongst the crowd with hors d'oeuvres piled high on silver trays. They were impressive but it was the bar that caught my eye. Measuring twenty feet in length, it was nothing spectacular except for the fact that there was free, good quality, booze to be thrown back as fast as humanly possible. I was hoping to drink enough so as to vomit on myself and mask any further floral assault on my olfactory. But it wasn't meant to be. Instead, I found myself queuing up to shake the hands of at least fifty people in the receiving line.

To give you a little context, this was right in the middle of the HIV/AIDS emergence. We knew it was transmitted through bodily fluids and as I worked the procession, I couldn't help but wonder where those hands had been. Could there be booger residue on that man's hands? Does that one suffer from inappropriate male adjustment disease? Does that lady change diapers? Shiver.

I came to the quiet realization that I was shaking hands with everyone they had shook hands with and we were all one big germ pile. The book says that the receiving line is good etiquette designed to welcome and thank one's guests. At the time, I saw it as a thirty minute barrier to getting my whistle wet. Thus, the second note to self was born:

No receiving line. Ply guests with free booze as thank you, instead.

After we were sufficiently fed and watered, the DJ began doing his thing in earnest. Up to that point, he had been subdued, gently introducing the wedding party, inciting people to clink their glasses in an effort to get the happy couple to kiss, yada, yada, yada but once dessert was cleared away, out came the "Funky Chicken". I HATE that song. It reminds me of Bobby Vinton. Anyway, the rest of the evening was spent experiencing EVERY wedding cliche possible from "YMCA" to "Thriller". And then there was the garter removal and the flower toss.

The garter removal started out normal enough with the bride seated and the groom at her feet. Unfortunately, the groom may have had one too many Ouzos because apparently, the garter was elusive in all of the tulle. He was reserved at first, nudging the dress up over her knees but after five minutes of searching for the needle in that particular haystack, he clawed at her like he was looking for a remote control in the couch. Once he located the garter, he bent his head to her lap and removed the thing with his teeth. The whole scene looked like a bad porn movie.

The flower toss was marginally better, only because it afforded me the ability to gamble. There was absolutely no way in hell that I was going to line up on a slick hardwood floor in stilettos and FIGHT for a bouquet of flowers! So, I participated in a little side bet as to who would take it. The bride's sister was pretty serious about the competition. She had changed into runners for the occasion so my money went on her. Unfortunately, she was elbowed in the nose by one of the cousins, who played varsity field hockey. Enough said.

Final notes to self:

NO FUNKY CHICKEN.

Garter belt to be equipped with neon, flashing lights.

Record the flower toss and submit to America's Funniest Home Videos.

Of course, all of these notes to self were wasted until now, which brings me back to the book and what I'm expected to do with my own wedding. I think I'd like to approach it in much the same way that I did when I gave birth to Olivia. When we arrived at the hospital, I had a sweet, young nurse enter my room and try to convey how she expected the evening to go. I gently interrupted her mid sentence and told her that the whole experience really only boiled down to two things:

1. I was too damn old to feel any pain

AND

2. Please feed me when it's over

I think that about sums up my feelings in regard to the wedding. I don't have much use for all of the formalities. My ideas are simple: great band, good food and plenty to drink. I mean, who really wants a candle or a book of matches with our name and wedding date on them, anyway?