Always a Bride, Never a Bridesmaid

Maybe it’s the beauty, pageantry, romance, absolute hope that a wedding offers, but I love to get married. So much so that I’ve walked down the aisle three times and am planning a fourth.

More than a billion people watched as Prince William & Catherine Middleton were married in London’s Westminster Abbey early Friday morning.

The dress was simple and elegant, the Prince looked every bit of his royal lineage, outrageous hats were worn, and a thousand masturbatory fantasies about the bride’s sister were born.

The Royal Wedding channel on described the event, as such:

Thousands gathered in London under gray skies Friday to watch Prince William wed Kate Middleton at Westminster Abbey, as hundreds of thousands more crowded the city’s streets to catch a glimpse of the action.

The bride wore a a dress by Sarah Burton, creative director at the late Alexander McQueen’s fashion house. The intricate gown, which she paired with a tiara borrowed from the queen, had lace sleeves, a plunging neckline and a two-meter train.

Most Rev. Rowan Williams, the archbishop of Canterbury and spiritual head of the Anglican denomination, officiated the nuptials. When his bride arrived at the altar, William appeared to whisper in her ear, “you look beautiful.”

Keeping with Anglican tradition, both the bride and groom pronounced “I will” after stating their vows. But instead of pledging to “obey” her husband, Middleton vowed to “love, honor, comfort and keep” him.

William slipped a wedding ring made of rare Welsh gold on his bride’s finger. Like his father, Prince Charles (when he wed Diana), and grandfather, Prince Phillip, William will not wear a wedding band.

The wedding party consisted of family and close friends. Middleton’s younger sister, Pippa, 27, served as her maid of honor, while Harry, 26, acted as best man to his older brother.

Maybe it’s the beauty, pageantry, romance, absolute hope that a wedding offers, but I love to get married. So much so that I’ve walked down the aisle three times and am planning a fourth.

The first wedding was an elegant affair. Approximately a hundred guests attended the ceremony, set in a beautiful park in the heart the bride’s Southern California hometown. In this oasis amid skyscrapers and asphalt, a nineteen year old administrative assistant said “I do” to a twenty year old military man. The bride wore a besequined white gown, with sleeves the size of basketballs, from David’s Bridal and a homemade veil because “None of the bridal store veils are puffy enough and I need it to show behind these giant bangs of mine!”. The groom wore a standard black tuxedo that had to be reserved well in advance because it was prom time and boys just two years younger were trying to get their hands on it and score their first boob. The bride promptly spilled those delicious little cocktail meatballs, inexplicably made with grape jelly, down the front of her dress, and one of the groom’s friends got intoxicated enough to urinate in the bushes beside the dance floor and write his name on every page of the guest book. The couple’s first dance was to “Sea of Love” by The Honeydrippers (randomly chosen from a list provided by the DJ because the couple’s REAL song, “Feel Like Makin’ Love” by Bad Company was too awesome and, surprisingly, did not appear on that list). After the ceremonial cut, the cake was smashed in the face of the groom, but not the bride, resulting in an argument that, ultimately, lead to the opposite of the couple’s real song on their wedding night. The union lasted six years.

The second wedding included no less pomp, but a whole different circumstance. The couple was married in a giant castle that held thousands of guests each in their own room, including a television with free HBO. The fact that adult movies were extra was offset by the additional fact that there were fancy ice makers at the end of each hallway. The ceremony, an intimate affair, was attended by four people, including the bride and groom. The bride wore a slightly musty smelling gown, looking to have been fashioned from an old brocade couch obtained for free on CraigsList that had been cinched tightly up the back as it had been made to fit any woman lucky enough to stumble across that drawbridge, a plastic gold crown, and a giant fever blister from the scorching Nevada sun. The groom wore a similar brocade garment, most closely related to a minidress, black tights, and a similar crown, but no fever blister. The officiant smelled of cigarettes and alcohol and was clearly in a hurry to get back downstairs to the casino as the profits from this wedding were burning a hole in his choir robe. The reception for two was held at a $1.99 All You Can Eat buffet, just as God intended. The union lasted six months.

The third wedding was a modest affair, held in the hallowed halls of government bureaucracy. The ceremony took place amid cubicles and the clacking of computer keys and elegantly lit from overhead, fluorescently. Two strangers repeated abbreviated vows, while the bride’s best friend, on her lunch break from a car dealership, witnessed the event. The bride wore a pink tank top and white miniskirt (you know, because it was a WEDDING), and the groom wore jeans and a tucked-in teeshirt, which was a mistake because the tuck hardly flatters anyone. Both parties looked worried, probably because they were marrying someone whom they hardly knew, but had something to prove. The bride, that she could finally make a marriage work and the groom, that he was heterosexual, despite being forty and never married and really into comic books and tranny porn. The union lasted one year, during which the bride was naked on camera, the groom still preferred the tranny porn, and no one spoke of either.

So, best wishes to the newly-minted Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (as well as Earl and Countess of Stratheam and Baron and Baroness Carrickfergus, because royalty like their business cards and desk placards to be impressive) are off on their honeymoon, and I am off to plan a party to celebrate my wonderful (and, let’s face it, brave) fiance’s and my love. He’s already asked for his cat to be the ring bearer and a fully-loaded nacho bar. The British don’t hold the patent on elegance, friends.

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The Checkout Girl

The Checkout Girl is Jennifer Lemons. She’s a storyteller, comedian, and musician. If you don’t see her sitting behind her laptop, check the streets of Richmond for a dark-haired girl with a big smile running very, very slowly.

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