It is wedding season in Louisiana. June is for peaches in Ruston, but it is also the most popular month of the year for young couples to tie the knot. I have been to quite a few weddings in my life, but there is one (besides my own) that I will probably never forget. If you have a minute, I will tell you about it.
It has been about 25 years now, but I remember most of it.
It was hot.
This particular June had been the coldest on record in eastern North Carolina, and just a week before, we had experienced the coldest June day in recorded history. But alas, on this sunny day, it was steamy hot. There was no sign of a breeze to give any relief as we sat in the afternoon sun. Droplets of sweat trickled down my face, my back, and, well… everywhere.
We were sitting in those rented chairs they always get for outdoor weddings on the front lawn of a giant North Carolina mansion. There were huge live oak trees all around, but the wedding planners had managed to avoid all the shade.
The lady sitting in front of me was… let’s say voluptuous. That sounds way better than BMI-abundant or… big-boned. The point is, I thought she was going to explode. Her face was red, her sundress was drenched, and her dyed-red hair, which probably looked nice on the way there, was matted down and pushed behind her red ears, and we still had 10 minutes until kickoff.
Well, not “kickoff,” actually. This was a wedding.
An outdoor wedding in June? Great idea. Bound to be the perfect temperature, right?
WRONG.
You would figure that a few thunderclouds would give us a break, but it doesn’t pay to figure. And now, on this sunny evening in June, it is 90-plus, no wind, no shade, no clouds, and no relief in sight.
No girls either….
What?
Well, none over 7 or under 40.
This wedding had a “man” of honor and two Bride’s Dudes. Bridesmen, I guess, but in my mind, they are dudes. No kidding, and there were still the groomsmen.
There was a cute flower girl who was about 3 and a “miniature bride” about 5 years old. The tiny bride decided this was a great time to wail and throw a hissy fit right on the steps as the bride came around the side of the house dragging her 30-foot train that had to weigh 50 pounds.
I guess the bride knew it was going to be hot and sweaty, since her dress was already kind of brown. Well, it was either that or her spray-on tan had already melted and dripped into her dress. But it was pretty, don’t get me wrong, and probably cost more than the GDP of most Central American nations.
Wedding dresses. Disposable pieces of art. Worn once, then discarded like packaging on pieces of meat.
Okay, maybe that was a bad analogy, but it fits because you don’t wash the pork roast packaging. You wrap it up and make sure it goes out quick before it starts to smell.
(All that sweat.)
The ceremony was taking place on the front steps of a beautiful Carolina antebellum house. The bride managed to drag her 30-foot train, now probably soaked with sweat and spray-on tan, up maybe 10 or 11 steps, where she reached the groom and the “all-male” attendants.
The judge stood waiting in what I assume was his courtroom robe, which now seemed to be a poor choice of attire. Unless he was naked underneath.
But I don’t want to think about that.
Where are the girls?
I have never been to a wedding without girls. There’s usually 6 or 8 or 11 bridesmaids and 15 or 20 others who’d like to be, running around. Weddings draw teenage girls and young women quicker than a free Taylor Swift concert, yet I’m looking around and I see two.
Hmmm.
Mustard.
It took me a few minutes to put my finger on that color. The tuxes had mustard-colored vests, ties, and trim. I was thinking, that will come in handy if we have corn dogs at the reception.
Nothing really says spring like the color mustard.
With that thought in my head, suddenly I think I can smell corn dogs.
It was spring in North Carolina, where we like our Carolina blue, NC State red, and all the pretty colors of spring.
But mustard?
I wore a tie. Yep, probably the only one there except for the judge, the groom, and, of course, the Dude of Honor.
We did have some hats…
No, wait, NOT hats like women’s hats at the Derby, sipping mint juleps and avoiding the horse poop in powder-blue pencil skirts and matching heels.
But hats like construction, tractor, camo, and, of course, NASCAR. And that was just family.
One hat said, “Rubbin’ Is Racin’,” whatever that means.
Whose idea was this anyway?
Sweat is puddling in my shoes when they finally get to the kiss. I am eyeing the reception area, which is the standard big white circus tent they have at all weddings. I am thinking there has got to be a cold drink waiting, so I am ready to make a run for it when they are done swapping spit.
But then the music starts.
The “recessional,” which I remember reading about on my fan (really the wedding program put to better use). It said, “You’re the One That I Want,” and I wrongly assumed it had to be a gospel song or some ballad sung by Michael Bublé or Adele that I don’t know, but has the same name as that song from Grease, from the 1970s, with Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta.
Nope.
It’s the same one.
And the rendition by the duo of musicians immediately reminds me of Saturday Night Live and the music teachers from Alta Dena, and it is about then that I decide I have to write this down or nobody is going to believe it.
When the song mercifully ends and the moms and grandmas finally stand, I’m set to make a run for a cold drink when the judge orders me to stop.
Well, me and everybody else.
I’m looking up at him, ’cause he’s at the top of those stairs, and in my deer-in-the-headlights eyes there is a “poof” of light, and I realize I’m in a group shot.
That’s me just over the shoulder of that big sweaty woman with the red face.
I was not expecting a crowd-participation photo-op.
I never signed a release.
When the judge looks away, I nudge the sweaty woman and slide by her, which makes an unsettling slurping noise, and make my move for the circus tent.
I know there’s got to be some iced tea, or even a cold beer, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.
I think I’m going to be first in line when a short blue streak comes by me, and I realize this was the “miniature groom.”
Yep, had one of those, too.
He had somehow stripped off his little monkey suit (with the mustard vest) and was wearing a baseball hat, shorts, and a tank top that I think said “Blue Devils.”
He was maybe 8 years old.
I’d have edged him out, but he had on tennis shoes.
Dang! How’d he do that?
After I’ve had a couple of glasses (plastic cups) of tea and get my tie off, I am definitely feeling better.
The bride and groom finally make their way to the tent after all the pictures (I’m not in any of them), and for the first time, I realize that she, the bride, now barefoot, is at least 4 inches taller than the groom.
With them at the top of those tall stairs, I couldn’t tell.
Or he could have been standing one step higher.
Probably better, since there was likely a puddle of sweat-laced spray-on tan under the bride after she climbed those eighteen steps with a 75-pound dress.
Or…
Maybe I just couldn’t take my eyes off the Bridesmen?
Either way, he is a short little dude. He looks maybe 3 inches taller, and about 4 years older, than the Miniature Groom.
Hmmm.
Whose idea was this anyway?
My wife, bless her heart, who looks beautiful and has maintained her impeccable composure through this entire time, finally leans into me and says, “You see anything wrong with this picture?”
This is her version of, “Hmmm, whose idea was this anyway?”
I lean back toward her and say, “Whatever do you mean?”
She is very smart, but mainly she knows me very well, and gives me a look that says, “Somebody needs to write this down, because nobody will ever believe it.”
That is what her look said.
What she actually said was, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wedding quite like this.”
The bride and groom make their way to the wedding cakes, and now I can tell why I smell corn dogs.
The groom’s cake is in the shape of the No. 4 KODAK Chevrolet NASCAR, with little pit-crew guys and all.
I am pretty sure the one next to the right rear is slipping in a round of wedge.
You may have to go ask somebody familiar with NASCAR to tell you what that means.
The No. 4 KODAK car is mustard yellow, and now it all makes sense.
Well… not ALL of it makes sense.
We finally said our goodbyes, hugged everyone of importance (sweat and all), and headed for the car.
I really wanted to be some miles away before they lit those 18-inch-long sparklers.
I am a boy from the South, but I still don’t think beer, fireworks, and hairspray ought to be in close proximity for too long.
I do have one regret.
I did not stay for the tossing of the bouquet….
Who in the heck was she going to toss it to?
