This writer for the LA Times has a great take on what it's like to be guy at a wedding. My favorite line is, "If sunflowers could smile, they'd be these bridesmaids."
By Chris Erskine
Los Angeles Times
Reprinted from The Seattle Times
Weddings are the ultimate chick flicks, and I don't mean that derisively. You see more women at weddings than men, and the women seem happier. When I hear the words "I do," I have the same reaction as if I were on fire — stop, drop and roll. Women, on the other hand, get all gooey over "I do." For women, they are the most powerful words. Along with "Amen" and "Oh, just charge it."
If you wanted men to attend your wedding, what I suggest you do — on the invitation, in big letters — is say OPEN BAR, and leave it at that. If there were to be a mechanical bull there, you'd mention that too. Men like mechanical bulls. My next wedding, I might have a mechanical bull. In fact, the whole thing might be hydraulic.
We attended a wedding the other evening, a splendid event, almost magical — like sunlight against raindrops.
The groom's uncle, an easygoing Mike Farrell type, conducted the ceremony. Were you a casting director looking for the perfect wedding referee, it would be this guy. His name was Mike. Uncle Mike. The things he said were spot-on, heartfelt, crafted like a sonnet.
Most weddings are too long, and you start wishing there were a halftime, or that someone would scream "Timeout!" so everyone could use the restroom.
Not this one. This one was the perfect length. I woke up just in time to see someone kissing someone else. It was a gauzy moment. Everybody seemed happy. People cheered.
"Huh, who scored?" I asked my wife, Posh.
"Matt did," she said, nodding toward the beaming groom.
My own wedding photo, which to this day I wear on a big honking medallion around my neck, features me and my gorgeous bride. She looks ecstatic and composed. I look like I'm being held up at gunpoint, eyes wide, hands out as if that's all I have, please-don't-shoot-me.
That was a special day. All weddings are special days.
At this one, the bride is right off the cover of a magazine. She is so ridiculously gorgeous, her father looks like he is about to burst. I counted 20 bridesmaids, then ran out of toes. Might've been 50, no one really knows. They were ridiculously pretty too. If sunflowers could smile, they'd be these bridesmaids.
Rain had threatened earlier in the day, and there was an arctic edge to the wind, but by game time, the skies were perfect for the outdoor ceremony.
This, I think, represents a sort of bride's luck, which is more powerful than nature itself. Certainly, some weddings go wrong, but bride's luck takes care of most ceremonies — covers them with a cone of protective good fortune.
There was an excellent reception as well. They bring out the cake, and I swear, it's in the shape of Louis XIV. There is a frosting of diamond dust surrounded by a silver-thread brocade that makes your eyeballs tingle and your wallet sweat.
Did I mention a most-excellent eight-piece band? There is that. If I were to be a wedding planner, I'd skip the pastor, the flowers, the cake; I'd hire an eight-piece band and that mechanical bull and be done with the whole thing. Salted peanuts in the shell would be a nice touch.
I know I'm cherry picking here, siphoning off the best parts of a wedding. But that's what I do — distill our experiences down to their core values.
There's a photo booth at this wedding too, and that only seems like trouble to me. As we left, a bunch of twentysomethings were preparing to climb into the photo booth together wearing weird, feathered, Broadway show hats. At least they were clothed.
I don't see a photo booth so much as making memories as compiling evidence that is bound to show up in court. Or worse, on Facebook. There is no decorum in America anymore. No sense of chivalry.
Speaking of chivalry, the little guy is here, and one of his luminous big sisters. Everyone looks very good this night, but I'm pretty sure the little guy is the only one wearing a clip-on tie and Scooby-Doo underwear.
My wife Posh used to have Scooby-Doo underwear, but that was back in her 20s, when underwear was more of an individual statement. Since then, she has not worn Scooby-Doo underwear. I think our wedding night was the last time, honestly.
"Guys don't really like weddings," the college kid standing next to me explains, which I think is before he realized there was a whole gaggle of Southern Methodist University girls in attendance. Because, basically, if y'all have SMU girls at a wedding, y'all have everything. A bunch of them cut in line in front of me at the bar, and I didn't even throw a punch. They looked like blond Christmas ornaments.
So, there you have it, the recipe for the perfect wedding: sensational food, good people, an eight-piece band, SMU girls and Scooby-Doo underwear.
Not too big, not too small. A beautiful bride, a handsome groom.
Hope somebody remembered pictures.
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