The Wedding, Part 1
When you’re twenty, you think that weddings are cool. (That’s if you’re a female. If you’re a male, you think that they’re a big pain in the butt. Especially the planning, which takes up valuable time that could be spent watching basketball.) You see the pretty flowers, the big swooshy dress, the champagne, the dancing, and you can’t wait. You might be in a friend’s wedding. You have to wear an ugly dress, but you still get champagne. When it’s your turn to get married, however, you find out how many details are involved in those flowers, dresses, and drinks. So you run off to Vegas, neatly side stepping all that pesky planning, etiquette, and engraved cocktail napkins. Whew!
When your sister gets engaged, you are thrilled! The thrill, unfortunately, does not last long. You find out that, as a member of the wedding party, you have all kinds of odd jobs to do. You thought you’d made a clean getaway by not actually having a wedding for your wedding, but now you’ve been caught in the bridal trap. You have to research caterers, and florists, and photographers (because you want to help, not because you’re a pushy buttinsky.) You have to shop, and sample, far and wide to make sure they serve the best champagne at the reception. And you have to do all these other things, like arranging for everyone at the reception to have rice, or birdseed, or maybe waffles to throw on the happy couple. You have to tie sheep to their car. Or maybe just cans and old shoes, like in the comics (note: both cans and shoes should be empty). And you have to kick everyone out of the reception hall after the bride and groom have left. This is not easy when they’ve all been drinking that champagne you got for such a bargain.
The most pressure filled part of the job may just be the dreaded Bachelor-ette Party. Yeah, it sounds like fun, doesn’t it? But you have to make sure everyone, especially the bride-to-be, has fun, but not so much fun that you forget to go to the wedding the next day. And you don’t want to offend Aunt Maisie, so the “stripper with an animal” is out. Plus, you have to find a way to transport 15 or 20 giggling, possibly tipsy women, from (hypothetically speaking, of course) a bar to (even more hypothetically) Chippendales, or a dance club. And of course you have to pretend to like whatever hideous garment you are asked to wear at the wedding. “Oh, yes, I’ve always liked roofing felt! It drapes so gracefully on my, uh, eaves.”
So, you‘ve got a lot on your shoulders as the sister of the bride/Jill of all trades. But you are up to the challenge. Or so you think. Then you realize that your real job is to keep the bride sane. She starts sending you email suggesting that she have the wedding at her house. Outdoors. In Washington. Where it rains ALL THE TIME. And then she wants all of the out of town guests to stay at her house, although she admits some may be sleeping in the garage. She sends pictures of engagement rings with no actual stones in them, claiming she’ll find something nice in the garden. You hope and pray that the sparkly Las Vegas-style thong wedding dress is only a joke. And she certainly won’t be able to train the cats to carry the rings in time for the wedding, will she?
As the weeks fly by, and the planning (and insanity) progress, you begin to delicately suggest that maybe living together is the way to go, rather than marriage. “It’s not called ‘shacking up’ anymore”, you say persuasively, “and hardly anyone will call you a ho.” If this does not work, and the happy couple is still determined to get married, then you try to convince them they’d probably prefer to go to Vegas anyway, and be married by Elvis. That’s when your sister drops the bombshell.
“We don’t have anyone to officiate our wedding. Elvis is busy. In fact, he’s dead. Can you do it?”
Did you know you can become an ordained minister, on line, for free, in about 5 minutes? But those Elvis suits make me look chunky, so I’m wearing a dress instead. I just can’t decide between the thong dress and the one made of roofing felt.
