My Job Here Is Done

The wedding weekend is over. My Old Man and I survived. And yesterday, we were rewarded by the Jersey grandparents taking O. on an impromptu trip to the recently reopened Liberty Science Museum, allowing us to spend the entire day alone together. It poured rain outside all day, but we were happy indoors, watching a movie, reading, and having long, uninterrupted conversations.

The weather during the entire wedding weekend, from the rehearsal dinner Friday night, to the post-wedding brunch Sunday morning, was gorgeous - sunny and warm, but not at all humid. And that was especially lovely since every wedding-related event took place near water. The wedding ceremony was quite beautiful and moving, and as I stood on the altar and watched my sister-in-law's eyes filling with tears and her face exuding pure joy, I myself became quite verklempt. But, remembering my mascara, I kept myself from spilling by looking at the lobster-red face of the very sunburned best man.

Overall, my feelings about this wedding are positive. We all had fun, enjoyed the weather and the view, and most importantly took part in the uniting of two people who love each other very much. But, needless to say, there were many trying moments and many absurd details. I can't catalogue them all here, but I will share one of my favorite scenes from the hours-long preparation session I took part in at the bride's house before the wedding.

I was the only bridesmaid who chose to do both my own make-up and my own hair, but in a spirit of sisterly solidarity, I was there for much of the preparation party. I watched my sister-in-law and my fellow bridesmaids get their hair high and crunchy, and watched the makeup artist work her magic on their mugs. I was upstairs attempting to manage my own makeup when the photographer arrived, and was a little confused when he said he and his assistant needed some time alone in the bride's bedroom with her wedding clothes. Sounded pretty kinky to me, but my sister-in-law waved them upstairs from her spot in the makeup chair, so I figured it was legit. It was only later that I learned what they were doing in there. They were taking pictures of her clothes, without her in them. Pictures of the dress, pictures of the veil, pictures of her shoes artfully balanced on the doorknob of her closet. What? And she paid them to do this. Has anyone ever heard of this practice? I learned of many arcane wedding traditions this weekend. (Including the bridesmaids and groomsmen forming an arch on the dance floor for the bride and groom to run through as the emcee announced their arrival at the reception. I wanted to go a step further and do a spanking machine, but was voted down by the rest of the wedding party. Damn.) But this was perhaps the strangest.

I was also struck by how the photographer, who I came to like more and more as the day went on, managed to be a married guy with a baby and yet be so culturally gay. He not only gushed over the wedding dress and the mother-of-the-bride dress and talked knowledgably about designers, but was able to identify the various fragrances the women getting ready were applying. He complimented my mother-in-law on her scent, effortlessly pegging it as Dolce and Gabbana's Light Blue. She was impressed. "It's new!" she said "Would anyone care to try some?"

I had to pipe up, "I would, but I don't like to mix fragrances. I'm currently wearing Tom's of Maine."

The photographer bent at the waist and smiled rakishly in my direction. "Tom's of Maine," he said, "You slay me."

I do what I can.