Barb's Burblings

Embarrassed? Me? Yes. Very.

Last weekend was my cousin's wedding. And it was all very lovely. I have to give him and his wife credit for the seating arrangement; they put me at a table with some big baseball fans. (And the reception was that much more enjoyable, coming after the O's beat Toronto 1-0. And did you all catch the O's sweep of the A's? Woo!) It was also nice seeing my aunt, whom I haven't seen since she was diagnosed with cancer this spring. She's doing well, thankfully. And the little girl at the table was a great dancing partner.

So overall, a very enjoyable time. On Sunday, my cousin's parents had a brunch at their house, and all was lovely. Then I dragged my mom to sit in the 100 degree weather to watch the O's lose to the Blue Jays. Oh well. (The O's went 4-2 that week; I was at both the losses. And a win. But anyway.)

But there was trauma. Against my will, I was dragged onto the dance floor when the bride threw the bouquet. I have yet to go to a wedding where the single women eagerly rush onto the floor and fight over the bouquet, as they seem to do in all the weddings on tv and in movies. But anyway. The bride obviously had someone in mind for the bouquet, but her first throw went careening off into the tables. The second time she managed to throw it straight back. Two women in front of me grappled a bit for it before it fell behind them. In front of me. Neither of them made a move for it at all, so I reluctantly picked it up. My first "caught" bouquet.

Now, at most weddings I've been to, the girl who caught the bouquet and the guy who caught the garter only have to dance. Not so, here. Their tradition was that the guy has to put the garter on the girl--and the higher the garter, the longer the marriage. This would be bad enough on its own, but add into it the fact that the guy who caught the garter was 10 years old.

To say that the boy seemed terrified would be an understatement. (I was not exactly Miss Calm, myself.) The DJ was having a good time bantering, and commenting on the fact that I had turned beet red. After I told him that the situation made me "feel dirty" (16 years younger than me is definitely outside the age range), the DJ let the kid off the hook. Which wound up being the most mortifying part of all. Because the DJ asked for a volunteer to take this kid's place.

And there it was. Me, sitting there, on a chair in the middle of the dance floor. Face, red. Feeling excessively self-conscious. Why did I wear that dress? How terrible did I look? No guy would want to come and put the garter on me. (And pausing to thank God that I had shaved my legs that morning.) There's going to be complete silence and the DJ is going to have to ask a few times. Horrible, horrible. And finally some guy will take pity on me, and I'll feel like absolute crap.

Fortunately, that isn't how it worked out. It was still completely mortifying. One of the best men hopped right up there and took the garter. Of course, then he had to put it on. And of course I was wearing a dress that was somewhat short, so it's not like he could get away with not putting the garter up very high. But we managed to get through it--both of us feeling obviously very awkward about the whole thing. It worked out well, though. And everyone said I did fine and was a good sport, etc. I apologized to the bride, knowing someone else should've gone through that hell, but she said that the person it was intended for didn't want it.

And I didn't even get a dance with the guy out of it. Sheesh. (The guy, for the record, had a girlfriend.)

Current song in my head:
"The Greatest Love of All" by Whitney Houston

Posted by Barb at August 18, 2005 01:40 PM | TrackBack