Humor: Weddings – Part 3
Wedding Bell Blues
In my long career as a female, it has often been my dreaded duty to “stand up” for a number of my gal pals when they decided to take the plunge and enter the sea of marital bliss. I have few, if any, happy memories of time served as a member of the wedding.
When my cousin was hitched, I was draped in yards of a layered, lemon yellow fabric of questionable origin, causing me to look like a pink-faced cartoon haystack.
As the happy day progressed, the molecular structure of the material and my personal body chemistry coalesced in a bizarre chain reaction which left me and anything within a five-foot radius of my person awash with the heady redolence of a poodle soaked in cider vinegar.
My best friend in high school had a summer pastel dress selection for her bridesmaids.
Since I got to the bridal shop last, I was stuck with the dress no one else wanted, a petal pink number in dotted swiss that ran from my chin to the floor and left me with a rash from which, many years later, I have still not completely recovered.
The most frightening apparition I ever created was as a member of my brother’s wedding party.
I am what is charitably referred to as “big-boned” or “full-figured”. I have always preferred the classic “Reubenesque” but no matter.
Anyway, my future sister-in-law’s friends and relations who were chosen as maids were what is known in most fashion circles as petites.
They all wound up looking smashing in the hint of pink. big-bowed-one strap, tea length, full-skirted gowns, opalescent voile over organza.
I, on the other hand, resembled nothing so much as a female Soviet shot-putter who was auditioning for a job in Hell as a girl’s bedside lamp.
To add insult to injury, during the ceremony I was forced to take charge of my one-year-old niece who was serving as flower girl. As we stood at the altar during the service, little Elizabeth kept trying to crawl away from the festivities. Finally I had no choice but to hold this squirming bundle of sweaty baby in my arms, (August, the air-conditioning had gone down) and it was like holding a fleshy little Dutch oven. With her body heat cooking me, my makeup streaked off in rainbow rivulets and my updo completely uncoiffed.
Elizabeth, an unsuspected junior prestidigitator, produced a supply of Pepperidge Farm goldfish from nowhere and began to feed them to me.
When she ran out of things to stuff in my mouth, she began to toy with the string of pearls around my neck, coyly wrapping them around her chubby fist until my eyes bulged toadlike out of my head and my face turned the cunningest shade of mauve.
She bit me on the nose, giggled and then she threw up, just a little, down my damp and drooping decolletage, just in time for us to walk back up the aisle behind the happy newlyweds.
And they want to know why I always cry at weddings?
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