Monday, December 30, 2013

THE CEREMONY



We entered the church, one minister and four athletically built, tuxedo-jacket-wearing men at, or nearing, thirty. I could tell there were people in the church and smiled at our parents. The procession began. Everything started out well, and the bridesmaids made it down without any trouble. As Angie, the maid of honor, started off, the musical selection for that portion apparently ran out of time. Our guitarist had made a big deal about needing the approximate duration for each musical selection, as he was incapable of simply stopping when the time was right. (Your favorite accent can be reapplied here.) Could you stop the tide from coming in? Would you stop making love simply because the fire alarm went off? Would you start wearing pants simply because it’s cold out?

In this continued silence, the first of our two fantastic recruits came, the Ring Bear. He had a somewhat varying pace and a slightly nonlinear approach to arriving at the altar. It wasn’t the swagger of a drunken buffoon, something more like the slight missteps taken by someone in a strong wind. I personally did not detect a breeze.

“You did a great job,” I told him and patted his head.

“Do you want to play?” he asked.

“Maybe a little later. I’ve got some things to do first.”

“OK.”

You have to admire his ability to keep his priorities straight. Play first, everything else second.

Next was Daphane, our flower girl, looking lovely in her dress, with accompanying non-cleavage-enhancing locket. She was very attentive to form. She alternated hands in support and distribution, making lovely sweeping gestures out to the side and depositing rose petals off to the side of the runner, a portion of one deposit actually made it into someone’s lap. I was only able to eyeball it, but I guesstimated the foci of the petal distributions were four and one-half feet apart, or two smaller-person strides, with all deviations under six inches, perfected through nine months of practice.

The music finally returned as Christa appeared at the end of the aisle, making it a magical moment on two fronts, love and musical accompaniment. This was the first time I had seen her in her wedding dress. There was late afternoon sun coming in the west-facing doors behind her, and she was simply glowing. Remarkably, the glow didn’t leave as she came down the aisle. Her beauty in the magical mystery dress, and her excitement and anticipation created such a wonderful feeling in me. About halfway down, her emotions almost got the better of her. Her eyes got big, and her lower lip quivered a bit. The good news was: I never thought for a moment that she was suddenly overwhelmed with fear and doubt, instead of pure happiness. The even better news was that I had correctly interpreted someone else’s feelings, and we weren’t actually about to have our own Runaway Bride moment.

As we met one another at the head of the aisle, we both smiled really big and said how pretty we were and took the last couple of steps up to the altar. The music continued for another thirty seconds, as that part of the magic subsided.

We declared our intent to marry. The intent was like a checkpoint at an amusement park, where they make sure you’re tall enough and that you understand the risks and waive all potential injury claims for the ride you’re about to take. We both assented with “Yes, I will.”
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Friday, December 6, 2013

THE WAITING IS THE HARDEST PART



I sat down, at the church, in my designated holding area. I placed a call to my groomsmen and suggested that maybe they could bring some snacks over for us. A little later, my groomsmen arrived with a bag of snacks, including Hot and Spicy Chex Mix, the perfect wedding-kiss-to-remember accompaniment. We gave high fives and said we were looking sweet. Not one of us could correctly attach a boutonnière; so much for my crafties. The videographer made his appearance, made sure to document the contents of the bag of snacks, and asked my parents for some words of encouragement.

My mom said, “I’ve always wanted a girl and am happy to finally have one.”

My dad, giving his patented head hug and cheek press, said, “He was quite a deal for a blue light special.”

To summarize, I was perhaps their second choice of gender, and I had some redeeming qualities for being deeply discounted merchandise from Kmart. They concluded by saying they were both very proud and loved me very much (implied: despite my man parts and minimal commercial retail value).

I had been planning and helping orchestrate the next part of my life for nine months. Let’s get to it already. Get me wife. Get me on vacation.

Near the end of the pre-wedding downtime, I was joined by Marvin, Christa’s dad. He has never been described as a hugs-and-kisses kind of guy. But he wanted to tell me that he and The MOB were very excited and happy for Christa and me. The true amount of emotion behind his statements wasn’t outwardly obvious, aside from a little shakiness in his voice and what I thought were watery eyes behind his tinted glasses.

I was in a state of anxious delirium and probably sounded like the Tasmanian devil, but responded that I was very excited to be marrying Christa and, thus, joining the Norris family. I then started spinning madly. This was followed by one of those slightly awkward handshake-hug combinations, and the spinning stopped.

It was time to get started. We were lined up behind the secret door. As we got in order and waited for our musical cue to walk into the sanctuary of the church, Matt asked, “Do you have the ring?”

My pits moistened. Boy, that was entertaining. Matt had been given the responsibility of carrying my ring. It had been delayed for as long as possible, because he was my little brother, who had a history of letting people “borrow” things and not keeping good records of the transactions. So his practical joke was made more effective by the slight fear of historical precedence. I laughed but had to consider that he might not have the ring, when it came time to symbolize my union. The possibility existed that he may have outjoked himself. It was go time, so I hoped for the best.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

PERSONAL PREPARATIONS



I was back at my brother’s house to shower and get ready. I relaxed for a bit and realized I was reasonably good at something that I had no desire to ever do again. I was a budding wedding-planning superstar, opting to retire after my first day in the big leagues. How much more magic could one person stuff into a day? I wonder if anyone will see my fanny pack under my jacket?

I sorted out my attire for the evening, making sure everything new was available and designated to the right body part. I entered the shower with my bear soap. I had to borrow some shampoo from the wall-mounted dispenser. Is this a violation of the only new stuff rule? Surely not. I opened the soap and realized that I had a washcloth, but it wasn’t a new washcloth. Perhaps I was a little overconfident in my preparations, as I had obviously not accounted for every interaction with cleaning products I was to have that afternoon.

Should I use a new razorblade, or will that increase the risk of cuts? I asked myself. I was using the same deodorant and toothpaste from yesterday, as well. I was starting to feel impure. Should I stop now and run to the store and start again? I couldn’t! There wasn’t enough time to get everyone through the shower and still be excessively early to the ceremony. I enacted the “it’s only what you wear” clause. I shouldn’t be concerned with my own purity. It was simply the façade of purity that my outerwear, covering up my vile secondhand-toiletry body, will project that was important. At the completion of my cleansing, I realized that my disposable contacts weren’t new either. They were sort of new, but not new new. I couldn’t throw them out, because I didn’t have another pair; I wanted to see; and that simply wouldn’t have been economical. Who the hell was talking about economics? Were my inner voices not united in comprehending what this day was? Today was to be pure magic, with emphasis on both pure and magic. Practicality and fiscal prudence left long ago.

I pictured my beloved in order to try and regain my composure. She would be my guiding force. She had accepted me, knowing my flaws, and decided not to question my apparent knack for crafts. I would stand before all the witnesses we had invited, so many days ago, and pledge myself to her. A feeling of relative peace descended upon me. The next vision I had was of the Pu, and he was laughing. It was kind of a hissing, whistly laugh that made him seem of Asian descent—like some blind Mr. Miyagi-esque ninja master, finding humor in his pupil, who had trouble grasping “sand the floor.” I was never more aware of his all-encompassing genius.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

Monday, December 2, 2013

THE MAGICAL DAY - THE RUNAROUND



My day began with grumblings from the mutant canine that needed to tinkle. I unleashed her from her cage. It was a beautiful morning, pleasant temperature and blue skies. The Lord had heeded my request and asked Mother Nature to spare our special day from the hurricane aftermath.

He had said, “You remember what it was like to be young and in love. Don’t rain on their parade.”

To which Mother Nature replied, “Are you saying I’m old? Maybe I’ll go find myself a creator who appreciates a mature and accomplished woman. It’s not like you’ve been hitting the Ab-Roller lately.”

On all levels, you must respect Womankind.

Both man and beast returned to the house relieved; mine was only mental. I sat down, turned on the TV, and began to organize my first craft project of the day. I had to craft my message of love in blue mini rhinestones on the bottom of Christa’s shoes. This had to be accomplished in time for Danza to deliver them to her, at the two-hour hair appointment all the ladies had scheduled for that morning. There I sat, with a horse that wanted to play and a cone-headed cat that was interested in my rhinestones—but more interested in avoiding playing with the horse. The next twenty minutes of my special day were spent with craft glue and rhinestones just small enough to be unaccommodating for man hands. Ultimately, I completed an “I ♥ U” on one of the shoes and called for a blow dryer. Heat was applied. Then it was time to rouse my best man and begin the day’s errands.

I got a little high-pitch and lispy. “Hello, people, it’s the wedding day. We need to be up, and we need to be organized. The love shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

My brother and Christa share some characteristics, mostly in the extended awakening to departure phase of their days. Here is how Christa and I make it on time to any event:

  1. I ask, “How long will it take for you to get ready?” (30 minutes)
  2. I multiply her response by her personally adjusted version of the space-time continuum. (1.6 X 30 = 48 minutes)
  3. I then add an extra fifteen minutes to that total and subtract that from when we need to leave our house. ( 48 + 15 = 63 minutes)

Over time, I have refined my estimate of her personal adjustment to the space-time continuum to 1.6. The most accurate first read of this factor can be obtained by having her cook mac and cheese, then dividing the length of time she instinctively cooks the noodles by the time printed on the directions.

This extra time before departure allows me to postulate hypotheses on how she could possibly individually affect the space-time continuum, without displaying any outward signs of superpowers. I assume that is why she always bumps into stationary objects. She is playing catch-up with the earth’s orbit, since she exists in a slightly altered dimension, especially in the bathroom.

After that tangent, Matt was now functioning, and we began to load the minivan, now christened the “Love Shuttle.” We had several stops to make and activities all along the way. The first stop was the church, where we were delivering the guest book and pen, unity candle, and programs. We were also meeting up with Jenny, our exceptional bow-tying, pretty-making hired gun, to get the key to the reception hall for our next delivery. Jenny was in transit when we arrived, so we got to rest for a few minutes in the pews.

“I’m tired,” Matt said.

“Get your five minutes now, and we’ll try and get done in time to relax a bit before we need to be back here,” I replied.

He’d been on active duty for what, maybe an hour? So there I was, reclining in God’s house, with a brief moment to reflect on getting married that day.

“Why do I have so much crap to do?” I said out loud.

At some point long ago, I was told all I had to do was smile and be agreeable. I wasn’t told about my checklists, my errands, my battle with a possibly incurable disease (aka the crafties), my kidnapping, and the rest. Weren’t my responsibilities supposed to be over with popping the question? If we are going to find a way to compensate stay-at-home moms, surely we can compensate stay-at-home wedding planners or at least confer on them an Associate’s degree. And where was my beautiful bride? Had she gently risen from bed and stretched to the sweet melody of birds chirping? Might she be on her way to the hair salon to sip champagne and be fawned and cooed over by everyone? When we renew our vows, I’m going to be the bride! Who said I didn’t want to be pretty?

At the reception site, we drove around to the side door of the building to unload. We went in to find a cart we had heard about to move the goods in bulk. The cart was not in the reception hall. It was not anywhere visible. We asked the security guy if he knew anything. He told us to check with the facilities office. It was closed. Holy crap. It was two of us with too much to carry.

I had to use the restroom. As I turned the final corner on my way to the restroom, a beam of light shown down from heaven and illuminated the scene. No, wait. I just happened to glance into a darkened, seemingly deserted hallway and thought I saw the shadowed outline of a wheel of small diameter. The cart had been found! I wasn’t sure if the cart was trying not to be found, so I brought it into the bathroom with me so it wouldn’t sneak off, if the opportunity presented itself. Doubly sweet relief that next thirty seconds was.

We brought in the booze and set out the table-name cards, which began falling off their bases. Monkey balls! Repair was needed. If the crafties hadn’t influenced me to buy a fanny pack, stuff it full of craft supplies for the day’s potential emergencies, and wear it like my soon-to-be-outdated chastity belt, I might have panicked.

The florist came in, needed clarification; I gave it. Favors were out, and Mr. Puddy was displayed. I was on fire. Somebody find me a six-foot block of ice—I’ll use my knitting needles, some Ziploc bags, and this remote-control car engine to create a specialty cocktail spewing lobster. Suck it, Corey!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival