I DON’T DO WEDDINGS
I ‘m not very good at weddings. I have zero interest in all the hoopla associated with them and I avoid them whenever possible. But just because I think of myself as someone who doesn’t do weddings doesn’t mean I can always escape wedding duty.
When I got married in 1956 I lobbied hard for elopement as I was painfully shy, but I hadn’t a chance in hell. My soon-to-be-mother-in-law insisted on a hometown formal church wedding for her only son. She was estranged from her only daughter and this was her best shot to act the big shot in the dusty New Mexican village of Roy.
Out-maneuvered, I borrowed a wedding dress and shoes from my college roommate and promised to show up. My soon-to-be-father-in-law threatened to boycott the event because he didn’t want to have to dress up, but I told him “If I have to show up, so do you.” Last I heard my mother had been living in Santa Barbara so I didn’t expect her to show up at all. But show up she did. I figured it was because she loved weddings; she had been the only one in her family (eight kids in all) to have a formal wedding.
Mom Nucci, mother-in-law-to be, arranged the flowers, baked the cake (she and Pop ran the town bakery), and organized everything else. In retrospect I suspect that she insisted on my mother being there and paid for their transportation to boot as my mother and stepfather were in the midst of a bankruptcy.
My soon-to-be-husband, the photographer, waltzed with his camera throughout the proceedings. Fine with me; I just wanted it all to be over with as soon as possible. “Oh, you’ll be glad one day that you had a proper wedding,” people assured me. However, truth be told, it hasn’t happened yet.
The highlight of the hillbilly extravaganza was after descending the steep steps coming out of the church in my borrowed shoes, I was forced to climb into a wheelbarrow that my new husband had to trundle up and down Main Street in a kind of western shivaree performance.
The next wedding I attended nineteen years later (soon after my one and only divorce) was that of my oldest son Richard. Jodi’s parents were mainstream normal (whatever that is) and had created a typically beautiful sort of wedding celebration. I promised my son that: “I will show up and I’ll behave myself.” As the date for the ceremony approached, and I found out my newly divorced husband was engaged to remarry, I amended my promise to just showing up.
To prepare myself for the ordeal I bought a wicked dress with décolletage to make my former husband jealous, I hoped. I also invited a hunky man friend for moral support; no one needed to know Glen and I were platonic friends only. We drove up to the church in his orange VW bug and he let me out so he could find a place to park. I walked into the foyer and the usher asked, “Bride or groom?”
“Groom,” I said and was seated halfway back on the groom’s side of the church. I didn’t see anyone I knew and was surprised to have arrived before the rest of the family. Glen soon joined me and we waited for things to begin. Other family members showed up all in a rush and were seated towards the front of the church. I’m sure it was a fine ceremony, but I was just trying to wait patiently until it was over with.
Afterwards, someone came up to me and chewed me out because I hadn’t been downstairs for the family wedding pictures. She indicated that they would have to take them now so we all could get to the reception in another venue. Downstairs I went, pictures were taken, I was third-degreed. “Why didn’t you tell the usher you were the mother of the groom?” I didn’t have a good answer, ignorance seldom being a good excuse under circumstances of that sort.
Upstairs almost everyone had left for the reception including Glen driving away in my transportation. I felt abandoned for the moment, but let people know I needed a ride to the reception. To my horror I found myself riding with Jodi’s proper parents. “I hope there won’t be a scene,” her mother said looking worried.
“About what?” I asked. It was only long afterwards that I learned that in Jodi’s mother’s universe a woman who had been stranded by her date deserved to be loudly chewed out at the very least. As it turned out I found Glen with my younger children wagering as to whether or not I’d get there by hitchhiking. No problem in my book.
A few years later, my daughter Deborah, decided to marry. Understanding my handicap she preferred to handle everything herself; I felt honored that she asked me to stand up for her as “best woman.” I promised to show up. It was to be a tiny late afternoon wedding to be held in the honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons around Valentine’s Day with a larger reception afterwards at the Capitol Hill restaurant she worked for. Deborah sewed her own dress, made flower arrangements for the reception and for herself, and wrote her own vows. The wedding party consisted of Deborah and her fiancé, myself, the best man, and the new age minister from Capitol Hill.
As the time to leave for the short trip to the Four Seasons approached I became concerned as it began seriously snowing in downtown Seattle. Deborah arranged for the best man to pick me up at my office on Eastlake. By the time we arrived at the hotel it was snowing hard and the minister was running late. Deborah was wearing white: the white fluffy bathrobe provided by the hotel; she also was wearing an attitude of exasperation. Her hairdresser was scheduled to arrive any minute to fix her hair before the reception so Deborah had decided to wait to change into her dress.
The minister arrived looking like a youthful Rasputin in a velvet suit. First thing he did was to come over to where I was sitting and spent long uncomfortable minutes gazing into my eyes as a way of getting to know me. After the informal ceremony began, Deborah sat in her robe with her foot swinging impatiently. I understood.her feelings perfectly. The ceremony was verbose, touchy-feely, and just plain weird. But, what would I know? I’m still a person who prefers not to do weddings.
