They’d Never Believe This in Des Moines

It was one of those Southern California days when people remember why they moved to Los Angeles. The smog, or rather haze, as some residents call it, wasn’t too bad. The temperature was in the 72-degree range. It was the perfect day for an outdoor wedding.

The ceremony and reception were at the bride’s parents’ house, a beautiful place with lawn and square hedges, fountains and little statues here and there--the kind of house that you admire and then on second thought wonder what you might be doing wrong in your own life, the kind of house that makes you think that if only you got that one big break. . . .

The valets in front took our car, and you can be sure I was sorry I hadn’t gotten it washed. I stuffed a few odds and ends into the glove compartment and wiped a few crumbs off the seats as Mercedeses and Jaguars lined up behind me.

A young man, who looked like he occasionally plays polo with Prince Charles, escorted us to our seats while the musicians--some with their agents standing close by--filled the air with festive yet contemplative music.

The magic of the moment, the serenity, the music, the flowers (which had been flown in from Holland) was interrupted when the man next to me said, “There’s certainly a lot of good, positive karma here.”

He was a distinguished-looking older man, a Ralph Lauren clone, and not the sort who you’d normally expect to use a word like karma.

“Karma abounds,” said his companion.

The music picked up and the bride appeared.

She looked like a model. Well, she was a model. Raymond had done her perm and cut, Adrianna her color, Roberto had “designed” her body, Phillipe the makeup, and April the nails.

But her dress came from a secondhand shop on Melrose, to give the wedding that old-fashioned down-home kind of feeling.

Silently I resolved to make a hair appointment, to start working out, and to never wear that crummy navy blue dress again.

OK, I was a little jealous.

My wedding was not in L. A. and took place in the days when an imperfect affair was when the first bridesmaid tripped and fell as she started down the aisle. We were jittery, not used to performing in front of a live audience.

A weird weather front had moved in about two hours before my wedding, my hair was all wrong and, in an incredible display of bad timing, my face had broken out that morning.

But we got through it. Even if my Uncle Bob had taken it upon himself to surprise us by videotaping the entire affair, a surprise that involved him running around sticking the camera in people’s faces.

After the ceremony, when we got in the car to go to the reception--as everyone stood on the sidewalk misty-eyed, probably from the exhaust from that old heap we drove--my new husband sat on the back of my veil, which was attached to my hair, and therefore pulled my hair back so hard that I looked like I was on some gravity-defying ride at Magic Mountain.

It was that kind of event.

But back to the present. The gentleman next to me, the Ralph-Lauren-karma-person had evidently changed his mind about the karma. He said, “This could have used a little more imagination. It’s all so routine.”

I pretended not to hear.

“You know,” he continued, “this entire occasion lacks creative energy.”

Well, I love L. A., but let me say this: That’s a comment you wouldn’t hear in Des Moines.

“Hey, it’s a wedding, not a movie,” I hissed. “What would you have them do? Stand up there and exchange Thomas guides? And say something pithy about finding their way in life?”

“This is like an old rerun,” he continued as I strained to hear the bride and groom exchange their vows.

“Well, after all, it’s not really about the wedding,” I said. “It’s about commitment and love and marriage.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “And where are you from?”