| This is Peter Beard, Cheryl Tiegs, Mick and Christine at Studio 54.
I wake up to a constellation of spider bites on my stomach.
Ursa Major Pain in My Ass.
The wedding starts at six, and I can’t believe we actually made it.
Trish and I are not known for our punctuality.
We are the last ones seated.
The wedding was scheduled for dusk at the Arboretum and
the lake almost looks beautiful,
disguised by the sunset, the flowers, the girls in their dresses,
and the men who handed them their handkerchiefs.
The girls are making funny stretched out faces as they dab their eyes,
trying to avoid smearing their mascara.
--“Greetings family, and friends. Welcome to this joyous celebration…”
The dress I wore cost 15 dollars at the Dillards prom clearance sale and I like it a lot,
but I don’t like sitting still in it very long.
--“A celebration of love and the joining of these two people….”
There are some mosquitoes hovering around my exposed ankles
and the tulle in my skirt is becoming bothersome to sit on.
The constellation is beginning to really itch, as well.
--“When Kim and Colby met in a morning meeting at work, they knew….”
I stare at the back of heads, the back of chairs, and the cute waiter setting up the bar.
I swat at the bugs and try to inconspicuously scratch my stomach.
--“Their first date felt as though they’d been together forever….”
Somewhere in the distance I can hear a mariachi band.
I wonder what they were going to have in the way of food.
I’d like to celebrate the joining of my tummy and some chicken kieve, right about now.
--“A symbol of their love, of their commitment….”
For some reason I look up and catch sight of the Maid of Honor crying her eyes out,
her hands shaking as she throttles the rose bouquet.
I turn to Trish to elbow her and give her an eyebrow,
but I see her making the same funny, stretched out face,
the pink sleeve of her jacket wadded up and darkened by tears and make-up.
She sheepishly looks at me and shrugs.
I turn to glance around the rest of crowd,
everyone looking so fancy and proud,
and I start to feel bad about not paying attention to all the mushy stuff.
As I begin to wonder why Trish is crying,
I suddenly can’t keep my own mushy thoughts down.
Those boys that didn’t make it.
Come rattling up.
Each skeleton suitor holding a box of candy
and a tattered back issue of Martha Stewart Weddings.
Spring 1998
Fall 1999
Summer 2000
Winter 2001
Winter 2002
With each of them,
I’ve had that one silly girl moment in the magazine isle.
The goofy, lingering glance at the pretty dresses and the flowers.
And the smiling girl and boy, ready for the top of a cake.
I always imagine myself on top of that cake.
The grooms face is interchangeable, but the smile on it has never wavered.
Those little hopes and daydreams.
Even if it’s with the wrong person, it’s still nice to have those.
--“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
I think about Trish and all our recent romances,
good, bad and indifferent,
and I realize that I’ve stopped having those Magazine Isle Moments.
I don’t want to lose that Little-girl-fantasy-unicorn-wedding-spark,
but I’ve really honestly stopped caring about what kind of dress I want to wear someday.
Maybe it’s the gettin’ older or the gettin’ done wrong.
But whatever it is, looking at the moving bridal magazine laid out before me,
I hardly feel that little girl tug on the edge of my heart.
-----------------------------------------
There are only three words I long to hear at weddings:
It’s Open Bar.
And that is where I firmly plant myself,
For Better or Worse.
Trish and I have luckily been seated at the table closest to it.
No need to even get up.
We sit and take pictures of the reception.
The women passing babies around,
older gentlemen dancing with a young niece or nephew velcroed to their feet.
The buffet line inches along
as people try to manipulate the awkward silver tongs
and then just pick up the stuffed mushrooms and such
with their hands,
plopping them down on their plates with apologetic grins.
I know every word to these old standards,
Sinatra and Fitzgerald,
and after several excellent martinis,
I have no qualms about singing loudly right along.
They slide in a Harry Connick Jr. song and suddenly everything is ducky.
I listen to the song and the chatter and the clinking of endless toasts.
I watch the candles flitter in the cool night and the faces of guests get rosier.
People are starting to get toasty and nostalgic.
I like to watch people pat each other on the backs.
The women cradle delicate stemware and toddle out onto the soft manicured lawn.
Their heels sink into the grass leaving them stuck for a second,
before they wriggle loose and take another step,
only to be met with the same challenge, a foot later.
All of them,
formal fawns,
taking first steps around the picture book.
The guys at our table have uncorked the bubbles meant for the send off
and are blowing them at each other.
It only makes every thing even more sparkly and beautiful.
Trish and I plunk down after dancing with all the grandparents
and great aunts and uncles.
Boy, they weren’t kidding when they said that “Outkast” song appeals to everyone.
I’m a little out of breath and Trish is fanning her face
with the previously swan-shaped napkin.
She holds my hand and I put my head on her shoulder.
She is a very good friend.
It’s nice to spend time with her when I get the chance.
She is wearing a dress and high heels.
Trish never wears a dress.
Everyone here keeps telling her she needs to wear them more often.
I think it’s getting on her nerves,
so I tell her she needs to wear high heels more often.
She slugs me.
I guess as you get older,
it’s less important that you dream about wedding dresses,
and more important that you make sure you have a good friend to be your date.
I don’t want to go anywhere.
This is all so safe and warm.
Everyone loves everyone and all of them are happy.
Not to mention the cake is fantastic and my hair totally looks good.
I don’t want to leave the table,
but other engagements,
a band and a party,
are waiting.
Weddings are fun.
They might put a little bittersweet in your step,
but it’s usually danced off by the end of the night.
---------------------------------------------
Later I went to Sara and Jenny’s party.
In all my wedding finery.
So many friends were there.
Laughing.
Singing.
It was loud and crowded in the house.
I could see people’s fillings as they
Laughed.
Sang.
Samantha booty danced on people,
Some guy spilled beer all over the living room floor.
There was supposed to be a butt-plug in the backyard somewhere.
It was the opposite of the wedding.
But it was the same warmth.
So warm in fact, I took off my sweater and pulled my hair into a ponytail.
Un-sticking my bangs from my forehead,
I stopped dancing to a karaoke Pat Benatar song long enough
to look around the room.
At all those people.
Many of them I’ve only known barely a year.
But I love them.
They make it all okay.
They make it worth it.
They make me stop and think for a minute that Texas must not be so bad,
if it can make me feel so happy.
Even if it’s just for one night.
|
