On my wedding day, I was blindsided by jitters. After my flower girl freaked about all those strangers watching her, I realized they’d be watching me too. Monitoring me, really. Attentive to my every motion, examining each fleeting facial expression, taking bets on whether I’d fall on my face and tangle myself in a profusion of tulle.*
My stage fright was so extreme that it was not eased by the bottle of champagne in the bridal suite. One of my bridesmaids finally sent for the groom’s bourbon. Two shots later, I was unattractively flushed and on my way to get hitched.
A few weeks ago, Liv had a similar case of stage fright on her wedding day. Sara and I entered Liv’s hotel room to find her pale and still, listening to a recording of the wedding recessional. Sara gasped and plugged in a Johnny Cash CD, while I arranged for room service to supply us with Maker’s on the rocks. Twenty minutes later, Liv was upbeat and ready to wed.
Incidentally, Biz and Liv eloped, which meant I got to make a wedding bouquet (this is getting to be a hobby for me). I’d never seen Liv’s dress, so I made her two bouquets, and she chose. Oddly, the one that incorporated weeds I’d picked last-minute from nearby fields looked awesome with her ensemble.
I’m in favor of any wedding where I get to be in a hot tub an hour before the ceremony. The wedding was so laid back and fun that I’ve decided everyone should elope from now on. I’ll make your bouquet.
*My fears in this area were not unfounded — falling dramatically at weddings is a personal tradition. I’ve fallen while descending church stairs in my bridesmaid’s gown, I’ve fallen while jitterbugging with the bride’s sister during our attendant’s dance, and I’ve been dropped on my head by drunken, dancing uncles too many times to count (drunk people like to dip). I did eventually take a nosedive on the dance floor at my own wedding, but I made it down the aisle just fine.