I'm Just Saying…

April 17, 2012

Here Comes The Bride…

It’s that time of year again. The weather is warm, the birds are chirping, and I received my first invitation to a June wedding. Oh joy! Let me just say I have nothing against people who enjoy weddings, but I am not one of them. For the single woman, a wedding is the crème de la crap of social events; Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit with a choice of meat, chicken, or fish. Consider this my official posted request: leave me out, take me off the mailing list; lose my address. Just tell me where to send the gift card.      

This is what happens when a single woman is invited to a wedding:

 First, you dig out all the party dresses from the back of the closet and find that none of them fit. You then spend $300 on a new outfit (mandatory uncomfortable shoes extra).

Next, you attend the wedding… and wait. Wait at the church, wait to greet the bride and groom, wait for the reception to start, and wait for the wedding party to make their big entrance to the ear-splitting decibels of “Rocky.” You may as well wait for Godot; I’m sure he’ll arrive before the cocktail hour when you can rush the buffet tables like Dick Butkis to get a melon slice and some sesame shrimp before the guests swarm in like the locusts in Egypt.  

You sit with the other single pariahs at a table in the back next to the kitchen. You are part of the cadre of single/divorced/widowed women dancing off to the side of the dance floor. This is to leave room for the normal, well adjusted, arrogant couples to shake their bootys. You entertain a fleeting thought of sneaking into the kitchen to stick your head into any available, unoccupied oven. Been there, thought that. I’m just saying.

 You receive a sympathetic eye roll from a non-party loving male hunched in his chair, looking like he’d rather be seeing his proctologist. He throws a filthy look at the screaming DJ as he leans over and shouts, “I’M GOING TO NEED A COCHLEAR IMPLANT.”  You nod; you are not alone in your misery. That makes you feel better. For about two minutes.

A red faced, obese wedding guest is doing the funky chicken on the dance floor and you’re afraid he’ll go Code Blue. You’re about to ask if the establishment has an AED  when the napkin in the bread basket bursts into flames. Realizing you set it too close to the votive candles, you shrug,  douse it with your water glass and order another drink. As the DJ screams “Where’s the bride and groom? Let’s get that garter off, my man,” you begin to wonder if your insurance will cover a cochlear implant. At last, the bride and groom cut the cake as Joe Cocker kvetches “You Are So Beautiful.” The groom cackles as he smushes the cake into the bride’s face, causing an uproar. You somehow feel better about your life and have another drink.

You are herded on to the dance floor. Activities include swaying and singing the chorus of “Sweet Caroline,” while swatting at the groping obese guest. Singing along with Barry White, he lets you know that he “can’t get enough of your love, babe.” You escape by hitching onto the caboose of the “Love Train,” hanging on to the non-party loving guy who shouts “I’M GOING WITH A MIRACLE EAR.”  Bravo my friend, you think, bravo.

At one in the morning, the rats desert the sinking ship to the sounds of “That’s What Friends Are For.”  A good time was had by all, well, almost all. Like Scarlett O’Hara you vow that this is the last year you will be single and you will never attend another wedding ever again.

I’m with you.


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