RECRUITING THE PARTY

There were very different approaches to recruiting our bridal party. Christa felt that, as soon as we were engaged, everyone would want to know who would receive these honorable designations, the duties of which would be to stand beside us, before the invited congregation, and bear witness to the pledging of our love. By not telling the recruits, we would appear to be reconsidering—or perhaps looking elsewhere for someone to fill these roles. Potential candidates would become uneasy with their standing as our dearest friends or family members. Soon they would begin to resent that they were, possibly, not the first choice, or that there was some reason for hours of deliberation. She reckoned there was so much planning to do that we needed to assemble the team and get cracking.

I, on the other hand, figured that people in the running for a bridal party spot would assume they were cool enough to get a general invite to the wedding. With our wedding date established, they would simply mark their calendars to ensure their availability to join the bridal party. They didn’t need to know about their promotion at this point. A male bridal party member’s first real obligation is either to get measured for a tux or organize a bachelor party, both of which were months away from requiring action. I didn’t see any need to rush things, as the New Year was approaching. What if one of my attendants was unfortunately killed or disfigured in a game of beer pong gone horribly wrong? Whoever got the call from the bullpen would simply feel like a fill-in, not a true member of the team. I wished to reserve the right to make my appointments until the big event was on a foreseeable horizon in a male’s world. Unfortunately, planning waits for no man.

Within forty-seven seconds or so of making the announcement to her family, Christa had recruited her sister, Angie, as her maid of honor. This was a lovely moment of sisterly bonding. Everybody was hugging; the Time-Life wedding reference books that had been ordered in anticipation were pulled from the shelves; a business plan with a detailed org chart was constructed; and the bridal war chest was assessed.

The plan was approved and laminated, and off we went to visit Mandi, her best friend since the beginning of high school. Announcement made, congratulations accepted, offer extended, offer accepted, plan revealed, plan ratified, informal brainstorming session initiated, plan amended, session concluded, happy holidays wished, and we were off.

At this point, I was probably misled a little, regarding how well-oiled the wedding planning machine actually was. It seemed that, once the bugle had been sounded and the troops roused, nothing would stand in our way.

The snag that inevitably forced a compromise in our individual strategies was that Christa intended to ask my brother’s girlfriend, Danza, to be her final bridesmaid, while I was intending to ask my brother, Matt, to be my best man. On the surface, there was no issue with this arrangement. But when it came to timing the invitations, she felt that asking one and not the other, at the same time, was unsavory, in terms of politeness. She had needed to ask Danza, “Like days ago, when we saw them in person. Asking over the phone is so impersonal, like you’re ordering take out.” I was more on a March or April timeframe and felt no need to burden Matt with anything today. I’d probably have to remind him every couple of months anyway. Needless to say, we opted for the early invite.

Unfortunately, we struck our accord after we were back in San Diego. But, from dire circumstances, come great opportunities, and those who seize upon such opportunities and then write a book that shovels on self-praise shall be remembered by those in generations to come.

“Why didn’t we just ask when we were there, in person? What are you going to do, e‑mail them?” Christa asked.

“What about a pretty e‑mail?” I asked.

“No.”

“How about a postcard, only we make it with piece of a poster board, so it is the biggest piece of mail they’ve ever received?” I offered.

“That still isn’t personal. It should be us. We need to make a video.”

“The digital camera records video, but I don’t know if it does sound. We might have to hold up the questions on cards.”

“Like Love Actually,” she said excitedly, referring to a scene from a romantic comedy we had recently seen where a character professes his love via a sequence of written messages and pictures. When it can be tied to a romantic comedy, it is probably a good idea. I could see we were getting close.

“We could do a sequence of photos and have them solve it, like Pictionary and those picture-puzzle type things,” I added.

“Yeah!”

The questions were: “Will you be my best man?” and “Will you be my bridesmaid?”

For the you, I drew a sheep or ewe. I thought them capable enough—and felt it would be in good taste not to put the distinguishing genitalia that would indicate for certain that said sheep was a female.

The be was easy. I drew a bee, except it was a sad little bee. I gave it a mosquito’s nose and left off the stinger, which I’m sure was an insult to bees everywhere. This was confirmed later, when one irate bee tracked us across the country, flew into Christa’s car on her way to work and stung her three times on the neck as she parked. They are resourceful little bastards, and I will draw them with the utmost respect for anatomical correctness from this point forward. Christa survived the attack with the help of a fellow parking garage occupant and her purse of vengeance.

The final three words man, bride, and maid all constituted drawing human-like beings and dressing them appropriately for their vocation. The man was easy, with his banana hammock, beer-reinforced abs, and slightly cross-eyed blank stare. It was the bride and maid that were more difficult. It wasn’t the outfits, a lovely sleeveless gown with train and a wonderful French-maid outfit, cut tastefully above the knee, that caused complications. It was my inability to create a remotely feminine face and form with my chisel-tip Sharpie that held up production. I presented my first bride to Christa.

“It looks like a linebacker,” she said.

“She just has good posture and bone structure,” I retorted.

I admit my ladies did have the strong chin you would expect from a family named Ditka or Butkus. I sought in vain to get any positive feedback I could about my ladies.

“I’m sorry, Honey, but they look like cross-dressers,” she replied.

“Thanks.”

“In nice outfits,” she chimed in.

“It’s too late.”

The best I came up with for the female form was a likeness of a RuPaul type. It was close, but very distinctly not right. I eventually argued that the true details of the drawings wouldn’t be noticed in the scope of the entire photo, including us, and was able to move on.

Matt and Danza loved the game and finally were very happy to accept our invitation to join us in the bridal party.

Only two positions of honor remained to be filled by two high school friends of mine, Andy and Mark, who had probably assumed they were front runners and still didn’t have anything to do. I was told that, if I waited any longer, I had to ask in person. This should illustrate the differences in each gender’s approach to—and acceptance of—such offers. On our next trip back to Bloomington, in early February, we arranged to have lunch with my parents and the prospective bridal party members. One was slightly late, as per usual. He knows who he is.

Once everyone was present, I made an excited anticipatory gesture and announced, “I need you two to do me a favor and act as my groomsmen for the festive fall event we are planning.”

They both said, “Yeah-he-heh,” gave each other five, and gave me five.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival