Wedding Bells

The Big Day.

It finally arrived. And shockingly, the world did not actually stop spinning on its axis. The angels didn't weep tears of joy. It still smelled like mulch/manure in my neighborhood and the lady across the street had allowed her recyclables to blow all over the block once again so they could collect in everyone's flowerbeds. Pretty much a day like any other.

Well it was for me, anyway.

Somewhere across town, a spoiled, self-centered 25-year-old was rising and shining, thanking the Blessed Mother for a beautiful day (I can only imagine the wailing and gnashing of teeth had there been so much as a whiff of precipitation...) and then remarking on her last poke at the snooze button, last piece of toast, last case of halitosis as an O'Malley. Aaaaaawwwww!

And several miles in another direction, J. would also be rising and shining, feeling more dread than anticipation. He'd have to go, smile for pictures, shake hands politely, remark what a lovely bride Em made, how the beauty of the day was outshown only by the vision of his sister's family, and speak his intercessions with conviction. Gagging on bile the entire time.

I'd had a wicked, wicked thought. He could do all that but what if he arrived looking completely ridiculous and straight-jacket ready?

I suggested he let me do his hair...a deep part just above one ear, and all his wild curls Brill Creamed into submission across the top of his head, where they can no longer be tamed and spring out in unruly defiance on the opposite corner of his scalp. Of course he'd first dress in the brown, plaid, polyester, wide-lapeled suit he'd have picked up for a 10-spot in a thrift shop near the projects. It would surely smell like moth balls or cedar, (the cedar making it a familiar childhood guinea pig olfactory trigger). It would be lovingly paired with a peach man-blouse, a pilled polyester tie in some kind of clashing stripe, and the finishing touches: a white pleather belt and white patent leather slip-ons, a la Pat Boone. (it's all about the accessories!) He could complete the look with square heavy rimmed glasses for an extra touch of class. He might even consider reading the intercessions like Jerry Lewis. Heeeyyyyyy, laaaddddyyyyy!

Girl can dream, can't she?

I am sure the day will go off without a hitch. Em has worked hard and I hope for the continued safety of all the folks who will be held hostage by her all day that it all goes well. Models of decorum. Visions of rare beauty. OK, it wouldn't kill me if the flower girl has one too many Shirley Temples and barfs on the dance floor during the Electric Slide.

I will not be there to take observant note of the details or the disasters. My story will be entirely second hand. I will be off enjoying the company of my children on the kick-a** weekend I've planned for them. They will never know the myriad events that led us there.

No wedding bell blues here.