...Well, no, we still can’t, because I managed to drop and completely destroy my cake topper on the way home, and I knocked over same piece of crystal TWICE trying to fit it into a cabinet (how the hell it didn’t break is beyond me; why anyone would give ME crystal in the first place is further beyond me), and I stepped on my own train and fell down doing the Gob Bluth Chicken Dance, but frankly, these are just things I’ve learned to live with over the years.
But that’s neither here nor there, because let me tell you the best thing about the whole day: Everybody loves the bride. No—EVERYBODY. For one day only, everybody thinks you are just the most fly bitch on the face of the planet and they TOTALLY MEAN IT. This was something of a shock to my system. I mean, I guess I was conscious of the whole “BRIDE’S SPECIAL DAAAAY” aspect of things, and I think you can actually be ticketed and fined if you see a woman in a wedding dress and don’t clasp her hands firmly in yours and tell her she’s the most beautiful creature in the universe even if she actually looks like a donkey dressed as Wayne Newton, but I was sort of too concerned about things like whether Milo would be wearing pants at the altar to really ruminate on it beforehand.
So my plan for the whole wedding day was: No Plan. This is because I suffer from pretty serious anxiety problems, which you would think would make me want to have shit nailed down to the floor, but actually the opposite was true. I knew going into it that if I had a plan, I would probably start having paroxysms when things inevitably did not go according to it (“It is 2:37 WHY ARE WE NOT ON BRIDESMAIDS POSE 14 FOR CHRISTSAKES WERE WE RAISED IN A BARN IS THIS A WEDDING OR A HOEDOWN MY GOD”), so when the wedding party asked when they needed to show up, I inevitably said, “Eh, sometime Saturday would be good. If you can make it.” This way it would not ruffle me when they showed up the following Thursday. It’s good to have your expectations low.
This probably isn’t the BEST way to have done things—for example, Milo called up to me as I was getting laced into my dress (estimated lace time: 4 hours) to inform me that, thanks to my lack of planning, the wagon that would be hauling the ring bearers down the aisle hadn’t been decorated yet. I refused to be ruffled. “Get a groomsman and toss some crepe paper on that shit.” But here’s the glorious thing: Because I was The Bride, he DID. (It looked like the Frankenwagon recently surfaced from the bottom of Crystal Lake, but remember, expections: So very, very low. This is a guy who thinks that brown socks with black shoes is bitchin style.)
I wanted a donut while I was getting my hair done? Bridesmaid will run down the block! I needed someone to hold my veil while I was on the can? Maid of honor here! I don’t feel like walking anymore? Groomsman piggy back rides! How the hell have I not hit on this way of life before? If you’re wearing a wedding dress, everything you do is both awesome and completely reasonable. I probably could have commanded some guests to reenact Plato’s Stepchildren completely in the nude for my own amusement and it would have been a-ok. (The part where Kirk pretends to be a horse while being ridden by a midget is, I feel, a wedding tradition more couples should embrace.) We went out to the bar after the reception and complete STRANGERS were honking and waving, buying us drinks, trying to dance with me, trying to touch my dress, trying to touch my hair, trying to kiss me, etc. Granted, strangers were very drunk, but still. A bride! We love her!
I think I’m going to wear the dress again next weekend and see how it goes.
Look at this fine shit. Want to see more? Head yonder for the professional set (EDIT: Now with real working link! You gotta tell me about these things, guys) - the username is Heather and Michael and the password is 15457-061210. (I highly recommend the "Before the Reception" and "On the Quad" sets, if you promise not to notice my nipple slip that is totally evident in one of those pictures.) Or you can hit up my Facebook for a series of increasingly bizarre candids.