The “Ring Bear” and Flower Girl

There is always some risk involved, when adding a whole new family to yours and recruiting them for roles in your wedding. Everybody has a few nuts hanging off the family tree. Fortunately, in this case, we have some of the good kind to illustrate.

Christa’s niece, Daphane, and nephew, Parker, were the leading and only candidates for the roles of flower girl and ring bearer. She was seven and seemingly born to play this role. Overcome by the request, to the extent of wide-eyed, smiling speechlessness, she had already started on a program, seven months out, to grow her hair for her title role, Daphane Flower Girl Extraordinaire. She asked every day, “How many days until the wedding?”

As further evidence of our exceptional choice in flower girl, I am providing the following amusing quotes and gems of insight—gathered when Christa went with Daphane to try on flower girl dresses in San Diego.

“I knew you would be a good bride from the first time I met you,” Daphane said off-handedly. This first meeting had occurred years earlier, when she was one. That kind of vision is a gift.

And “Christa, we’re a lot alike. We’re both stylish.” Classic, almost understated in implying, “Christa, I don’t have to tell you how good I’m looking; you’ve been there. So you understand my concern that you might be blocking the view of my admirers in that yonder, less aesthetically gifted bridal party.”

On the other side of the coin, we have the ring bearer, who at last checkup believed he was playing the role of Ring Bear. It was never clearly established what the role of the ring bear was, but it was important.

The Bear has a need for speed. He is a headfirst, downhill, don’t check for traffic type of guy. I gave him an audition, where I made him stand still and then counted down from ten. I was hoping that he would proceed at a somewhat leisurely pace across the fifteen feet of floor space to present the imaginary rings to me. Unfortunately, he rammed headfirst into my groin, covering the distance in three strides and less than a second.

Christa smiled. “He is going to need some practice.”

“What he needs is a padded helmet,” I replied.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

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

THE MAGIC OF THE RING

Christa contends that The Ring bestows special powers upon its wearer. She has not been granted eternal life with the accompanying vocal tick of Gollum, but there have been hints of good fortune, as she interprets them.

For example, on the way home from informing the families, we were not able to reserve seats for the Chicago-to-LA leg of our trip. We were told to speak with the gate representative thirty minutes before flight time. We figured we would be sitting apart from one another, near the lavatories. So she “put The Ring to work,” as she described it. At the counter, she handed our tickets to the woman left-handedly and left The Ring on display on the countertop. Somehow, not possibly by the airline overbooking economy, we were given first-class seats. Ten more flight upgrades, and Tiffany and I can call it even.

Another instance of the power she experienced was that, within a single hour at the mall, three older gentlemen came up and, out of nowhere, said something like, “You’re purty.” “That stuff doesn’t happen to me,” she said.

All I could think was: That was a blessing—your very own lecherous old men? It’s a Festivus miracle.

Then I realized that the power of The Ring had been extended to me. No gloriously handsome, wealthy but humble, honest but flattering, fine piece of ass had approached her. It had been a selection of random older guys—suitors I could, hopefully, compete with easily. Suitors I could possibly out-woo on looks alone. Thank you almighty ring!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival
 

The Gift of a Son

As we drove to Ohio to see Christa’s family, she began plotting how to impart the news to her parents. The announcement was twofold, as we had committed to moving back to the Midwest as well. With two announcements to make, Christa was obviously not about to hide the engagement any longer. But since she especially liked to scare and trick her mother, a pregnancy could be hinted at for the briefest of moments, prior to revealing the second piece of news.

As we arrived, a ribbon was tied around my head, in what was the toothache fashion of yesteryear.

Right inside the front door, she said, “Guess what I got you for Christmas—a son!”

Again, cheers from the crowd. Happiness. Ring viewing.

“This calls for a celebration,” someone said.

“Christa shouldn’t drink,” I said.

She quickly followed with, “We have a second announcement to make.”

Brilliant teamwork. Trepidation welled inside her mother—as her eyes widened and breathing paused, and she hoped an unprotected joining of the genitals had not been the reason for our engagement.

“We are moving back to Cincinnati,” Christa concluded.

A noble victory: the subject was discussed enthusiastically, partly because it wasn’t Junior on the way. Christa had initially wanted to artificially create a small “bump,” as they say.

“You don’t really want to lose her to hysteria or make her heart actually stop, do you?” I had asked.

You would never pick Christa out of a lineup as the evil mastermind behind such capers, but then, those are generally the most successful perpetrators.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival

INFORMING THE FAMILIES - The Relief of Mother

We decided to inform our families in person. First, we had to decide between telling Matt and Danza, my brother and his girlfriend, who picked us up at the airport, or waiting until everyone was together at brunch the following morning. I thought a family announcement would be better. This delay was one of the most annoying periods of time for Christa.

She decided to conceal, but not remove, The Ring while we were with Matt and Danza, from about six that night until ten the following morning, and she was very nervous about it. As a veteran of hiding things, I was much more willing to test the limits. This started with a family hug, when we saw my brother at the airport, and my asking him if he liked the movie The Wedding Planner, during the car ride home.

Christa’s preferred method of secrecy was to hold her shirtsleeve over her left hand.

“You look a little gimpy,” I said.

“Shut it,” she hissed through her teeth.

She is left-handed and had to eat dinner right-handed.

“Have you used a fork before?” I asked.

“Shut it.”

Later I was told, in private, that I wasn’t making this easy. She never took The Ring off, in spite of my actions, which I considered a good sign.

So, by the time we arrived at my parents’ house, I was as ready to tell them as she was to stop the secrecy. After opening hugs and everybody assembling in the living room, I exclaimed, “All right, announcement time—we’re engaged!”

Cheers from the crowd.

“Oh, let me see,” my mom said, reaching for the ring hand.

The ring’s power and allure were overwhelming to the female consciousness. My mom was apparently “so hoping” that this moment was coming. After thirty years, she was tired of boys. My dad gave me a hug, not saying much, as he internally weighed his excitement against my momentary lack of fiscal policy.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival