How Not To Get Married
Hyperventilate. Chew lips, chew nails, chew cigarettes. Complain that your dress itches. Hitch up garter. Repeatedly. Repress the urge to cringe when your mother reaches toward you to straighten your hair. She smiles with approval. Refrain from telling her she looks bloated. While bridesmaids rush around in a flurry of pearls, lace, and clouds of Chanel No. 5,and pristine white gloves, remember your first girlfriend in college, how she got off dressing you up like a Stepford Wife. Obediently go for a drink when your mother comments that you look dehydrated. Drink water. Look around. Drink the Bourbon from the flask that you discreetly hid in your garter. The one your last boyfriend left when he moved out of your starving post-graduate student single room loft. You kept it because you thought it was so pretty and shiny, and because it had a sacred heart etched in the middle. Pace. Try to convince yourself you're not settling. Return to dressing room. Put on veil. Start when the wedding march does. Walk slowly down the isle. Look at the bridegroom. He is Black and jowly. Conservative. He looks grim and stiff like a Baptist preacher. You haven't had sex. Look out at the guests because someone stands up when the minister goes off on his speak now or forever hold your speech spiel. It's her. The girlfriend. The first one. She looks equal parts wistful and pissed. Run down the isle when she starts to leave. Trip. Jump into her car. Drive to the house your parents just purchased for you. Pack. Buy two tickets for Toronto. On the plane think about the time you told your friends your ideas about marriage, and how they always though you would change your mind.
Hyperventilate. Chew lips, chew nails, chew cigarettes. Complain that your dress itches. Hitch up garter. Repeatedly. Repress the urge to cringe when your mother reaches toward you to straighten your hair. She smiles with approval. Refrain from telling her she looks bloated. While bridesmaids rush around in a flurry of pearls, lace, and clouds of Chanel No. 5,and pristine white gloves, remember your first girlfriend in college, how she got off dressing you up like a Stepford Wife. Obediently go for a drink when your mother comments that you look dehydrated. Drink water. Look around. Drink the Bourbon from the flask that you discreetly hid in your garter. The one your last boyfriend left when he moved out of your starving post-graduate student single room loft. You kept it because you thought it was so pretty and shiny, and because it had a sacred heart etched in the middle. Pace. Try to convince yourself you're not settling. Return to dressing room. Put on veil. Start when the wedding march does. Walk slowly down the isle. Look at the bridegroom. He is Black and jowly. Conservative. He looks grim and stiff like a Baptist preacher. You haven't had sex. Look out at the guests because someone stands up when the minister goes off on his speak now or forever hold your speech spiel. It's her. The girlfriend. The first one. She looks equal parts wistful and pissed. Run down the isle when she starts to leave. Trip. Jump into her car. Drive to the house your parents just purchased for you. Pack. Buy two tickets for Toronto. On the plane think about the time you told your friends your ideas about marriage, and how they always though you would change your mind.
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I have seen dozens of weddings. I've been a wedding videographer for 4 years. And I must say...I've never been able to capture anything quite like that on tape.