I'm probably not as uncomfortable as the bride, but I'm close. She's corseted, and painted, and bound, and my God those shoes are a torture device on a whole new level. I got up close and personal with them for another photo opportunity. I'm corseted up in this fashioned ribbon handle with pins holding everything in place. I guess if my garments were to fail, the worst that could happen would be a few stems exposing. I'm wrapped up tight. I'm not going anywhere. The bride on the other hand is simply wound up. I stopped counting how many times she's cried. She does look beautiful. It's rare to see a bride that isn't beautiful, and usually her ugliness has nothing to do with appearances. Half the time I'm afraid she is going to drop me and other times I think her grip is going to collapse my stems. The bridesmaids are taking good care of her. They only switched to mimosas about 30 minutes ago. I always hate to hear about a drunk bride. Be drunk after you've promised to love and honor someone else for all of time. Be present in that vow.
The lulling music that gently allows people to gracefully find a seat has been playing for almost an hour. I'm sitting on a glass topped table with more flowers like me on it. The burlap. My god the burlap. After this jaunt down the aisle I have one more act of being thrown at marriage hungry women, and then I will pass on to that great parched memory. I'll exist in photos, and in that text book. I will be. I will simply be different. I notice the music change. I see the bridesmaids line up and take the arm of a groomsmen. Two by two they begin the walk. My fellow flower arrangements are holding up to snuff. They look stunning. In my world this show is about me. I must be more perfect than perfect.
I may look perfect, but I'm starting to really sweat it... where is the bride? I'm kiiiiinda supposed to be with her. She's supposed to shakingly have me in one hand while she tries everything but face planting in those obsurd shoes and balancing on her daddy's arm. Hell, where's Daddy? This is an instance where not having legs is a real downer. I listen: nothing. She can't walk down the aisle empty handed! I worked hard to maintain these colors for her!! I hear the music change. Oh no! No! Not without me!! I've waited my whole life for this moment! Was this all for nothing?! I see the coat tails of a single male flash past me. I'm jerked off the table and whirled around. If this is that bratty ring bearer I am going to lose my petals. Things slow down and the bride, crying again of course, kisses her father on the cheek and says, "Always there for me Daddy." and he, while tears pool into his Tom Selleck moustache, responds, "That's my job." I sigh. I sigh so heavily I am worried she may have felt the flowers relax. I realize that the church is full: Full of people with eyes anticipating our grand entrance. Oooh! I love it! I love the whispers. I hear them! Older women in big hats are whispering their adoration and blessings to the bride! I'm doing it! I'm holding it together!
The father-of-the-bride walks slowly. She doesn't faulter or totter. She has her eye on the prize. Which reminds me. I haven't seen the groom today. He saw me in passing yesterday in the florist's cooler and smiled in that terribly overwhelmed please-can-we-just-be-married way. I hear that's what approval looks like from a groom. We approach the alter and suddenly I realize the true weight of what I'm participating in. A moment of panic hits me. Is this the right thing for her? What is she thinking? He has a lousy haircut. He doesn't scream, "Hey! I'm a great provider and father-type!!" I start to pray that he doesn't smell like liquor. And then I look at him; the dopey boy with the ugly haircut. He is wearing glasses. Come on dude. Contacts for one day wouldn't kill you; especially when you think about all that she's got on! Oh, but then I looked at the eyes behind those glasses. And that boy was terrified. He looked at her with the reverance that most people look at miraculous things like new babies and waterfalls. His eyes said, "AHH! This is real!" but his lips said, "smile, don't cry. smile." His chin quivered. The bride was handed to him and the father-of-the-bride took his seat. The ceremony was pretty stereotypical. The age old vows were said. And right when you expect the minister to announce the Union of souls a tiny voice croaked out. The bride said, " I gotta read you something. It maybe isn't about today, or tomorrow, or yesterday. But I want to start our marriage off here." The groom, having gathered all his courage and loudness to recite the vows smiled at her. She said, "My love. We’ve got this all wrong. We didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That is where we came from and where we’ll return. We came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love. Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of… messing up. Often. We didn’t come here to be perfect. We already are. We came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous. And then to rise again into remembering. But unconditional love? Let's stop it there. Love, in truth, doesn’t need ANY other adjectives. It doesn’t require modifiers. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that we show up. And do our best. That we stay present and feel fully. That we shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall and get back up and play and work and live and die as US. It’s enough. It’s Plenty.** You can call us man and wife now. I wanted to start there. I wanted that to be home plate for us."
**this is a modified quote from Courtney A. Walsh's poem.
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