Nice Day For A White Wedding

It was actually a nice day for a white wedding. The weather in the Hunter Valley was superb as I barreled through Cessnock in Albus the albino Toyota. I was running, as I always do, rather late (on the scale of bizarrely close to on time, to missing the plane, I was somewhere in the middle). As this wasn’t an elaborate dream sequence, and therefore not my wedding, my tardiness wasn’t going to leave a groom weeping at an altar.

I may have been running late, but no one could fault my meticulous preparation. The day before I had bought the gift, purchased a new eyeliner, and then undergone one of the few experiences more painful than bra shopping – strapless bra shopping. Perhaps the ultimate Joke Garment, for the more ample woman I’m quite certain the strapless bra merely serves the purpose of providing discomfort and uncertainty in equal measure. It can’t possibly fit, and it’s fighting a losing battle with gravity without its most faithful companion in such battles – the strap. Perhaps foolishly, I opted not to visit The Bra Whisperer* for this purchase.

Then, the morning of someone else’s big day, I bit the bullet and confronted my legs with a razor. That was when I realized how easily Winter tricks you with its jeans and its flannel pyjamas. It’d been too long. The closest thing I can liken it to is shaving a bear. Shaving my legs was like shaving a bear.

I screeched into a parking space, ran into the accommodation I was sharing that night with three friends, and threw some make up at my face. Then I stole some food from a pregnant lady (the pregnant lady is a friend, if there’s any way that could possibly make that fact sound better).

Despite my speed, the four of us were still late for the ceremony. That would have been fine if it hadn't been the CREAKIEST CHURCH EVER, thus our attempt at a subtle, muted entry prompted the capacity crowd to turn and ponder us as we took our seats. We’d missed the walk down the aisle which, unlike the opening credits of a movie, is quite crucial if you want to get a good look at the Great Dress Reveal. Suddenly, with a tap on the shoulder, the couple’s rings were handed to us. They were being handed around the church during the ceremony so everyone had the chance to pray over them... except we missed the part where they explained that, so we just thought we were all being given a chance to admire the rings (and dutifully did so).

It wasn’t long into the vows when the Pregnant Friend I Stole Food Off began to tear up. This was remarkable when you consider she couldn’t actually see anything from where we were seated, and I was quietly narrating the events as they happened for her. I like to imagine it was because I gave such a beautiful, moving account, but let’s be honest hormones probably played a much bigger role.

One lovely, personal ceremony later, driven by the quirks of a priest who was part minister, part entertainer (he was a ministainer**), we were headed toward the reception. When a KFC establishment loomed in the approaching distance we did the respectful, classy thing – we opted for drive thru.

The rest of the evening was filled with those wedding staples. My shoes hurt me so much I wanted to chop off my feet. Wine was in abundance. Speeches got emotional. A bouquet was tossed and a garter was removed with teeth, and no one looked even remotely embarrassed by either exercise. Then, as the bride and groom cut the cake, there were actual, literal fireworks.

It should be noted the bride looked stunning and the groom looked besotted. All the things you really want to see at a wedding.

I even had a momentary lapse in which I found myself thinking marriage could be nice. That moment passed as quickly as it came.

I had more immediate tasks. Like driving back to Sydney for work at 7am the next day. My drooping eyelids forced me to stop at a petrol station halfway, park, recline my driver's seat and have a 20 minute nap. I awoke drooling to the perplexed look of some 10 year old peering through my car window at me. I may have actually muttered "Bugger off"***. Fortunately the window was closed.



Painefull Out

* = The Bra Whisperer – a mysterious woman in a certain shop who can glance at you once and then present you with the perfect bra.

** = An irrelevant and unfunny joke unless you have an abiding love of Joey in Friends.

*** = I may have muttered something worse. But I was half asleep, so who’s to say?