Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Saturday: Mugging for Pictures and Catching the Bouquet

(Guess I should finish up this wedding recap, eh?)

After pictures in the church, we piled into the limo. We broke out the champagne and went for pictures around A2. The bride and the groom both attended my alma mater, and they were all about getting pictures around campus – The Big House, the law quad, a few of the more beautiful campus buildings.

At one point, in front of the stadium, we all had to simultaneously jump for joy. Yes, this picture is overdone. Yes, it will still be hilariously awesome.

They weren’t all group pictures, of course. The bridal party had to stand around and wait for all of the bride and groom’s pictures. And, in the process, act like jackasses. At one point, the groomsman who I walked down the aisle with was hanging off of a fence wearing a fierce stare. At another point, I cajoled a boy riding by on a bicycle to stop to have his picture taken with me.

(Like I said: I was totally out of control.)

Back at the reception site, guests were anxiously awaiting our arrival.

When we got to the hotel, we did the usual: bridal party entrance with our own silly twists. Watched the cutting of the cake. Listened to toasts. Ate filet. Clanged our glasses to harass the newlyweds.

It was a very traditional wedding. They left out nothing that “everyone” does.

Although, the bride and groom’s first dance was definitely an elaborately choreographed ballroom number. Oh, goodness – that groom is a trooper! I couldn’t/wouldn’t ever do such a thing. To my groom or to myself. But good for them, right?

Steeped in tradition, they couldn’t leave out the garter belt hullabaloo or the bouquet toss.

I caught the bouquet. CLEARLY I caught the bouquet. (And it isn’t the first time, so don’t ya’ll go on and on about that marriage superstition.)

Oh, and I also cut my finger in the process. Because the bouquet was wrapped in ribbon with wire. And I was stabbed with the wire. And left some blood droplets on the bouquet. Classy!

But it only gets better.

Had I known what was following my victory, I wouldn’t have even pretended to try for the damn bouquet.

I swear that I’ve never been at a wedding where this has happened. But everyone I’ve told this story to is like “um, duh. That’s what they do.”

The asswipe who caught the garter belt then proceeded to put it on me. What? How did I not know this was coming? All of a sudden, I’m being introduced to this tool and sat in a chair and he had NO QUALMS about trying to put that garter belt, like, around my hips.

This is a family show, brother. Could we stop just past the knee so that I can maintain some sense of dignity? Sweet baby J, I was embarrassed.

Not embarrassed enough to stop myself from spending the night alternating between the photo booth (so fun!) and the dance floor. But embarrassed. The groomsman I walked down the aisle even said something about how red I turned after he reached a certain point on my thigh. Charming. Really.

The reception – it is a bit of a blur. A lot of the same, on repeat. The dancing. The pictures. The chatting with guests. The giggling with the other bridesmaids. The mad dashes to the bathroom, to check my makeup and make sure I didn’t have frosting smeared across my face. The periodic visits to the bar.

I blinked and it was midnight. And I was walking with the Maid of Honor to the bridal suite, picking up our belongings and hunting down the bride’s sandals. And falling onto the couch in the lobby, quietly waiting as The Groomsman finished packing up wedding presents.

I have never been quite so excited to take off a pair of (custom dyed) shoes. Or to unzip my dress. Or to see my bed.

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