Bouquets, Bubbles and Brides-to-Be
Here it is mid-May already, and every church we pass seems to have a wedding party out front with the participants wearing colors they wouldn’t otherwise be caught dead in, in layers too thick for a warm California day.
“Look, another wedding,” my lovely and patient older daughter says.
“Yep, another wedding,” I say.
You can almost smell them, these weddings, a marriage musk hanging in the air along with too much pollen and the promise of things to come, which has an odor all its own.
“She’s so beautiful!” my older daughter says, pointing to the young bride emerging from the church.
“I think I’m going to cry,” says the little red-haired girl.
We have passed three churches today, and at each one there has been a wedding. At each one, I agree to pull over for a moment so my daughters can press their noses to the car windows and stare out, to watch the wedding as if witnessing a fairy tale, their eyes wide, their pupils dilated.
“Look, they’re blowing bubbles at them!” says the little girl as the bride and groom walk down the steps in a cloud of toy store bubbles.
“I like the bubbles,” says my older daughter. “I want bubbles at my wedding.”
“Me too,” says the little red-haired girl.
Me, I preferred the rice. Rice represented sustenance, which every marriage needs. And tradition, which societies require.
It was also, in my mind, a not-so-subtle reminder for honeymooners to remember to eat.
“Why do they blow bubbles?” the little red-haired girl asks.
“Because rice was hard to clean up,” I say.
“They threw rice?” the little girl asks.
“And sometimes birdseed,” I explain.
“Weird,” says my older daughter. “Weddings are so weird.”
“I think I’m going to cry,” says the little red-haired girl.
Along the curb stands the groom, kicking at the grass, contemplating a quick getaway.
He has the expression of a guy who has gone to a cocktail party and realized that he’s forgotten to wear his pants. You can see it in his eyes from 30 yards. The look that says, “How’d I get here? And where are my pants?”
For support, he’s got his buddies with him here in front of the church. The groom doesn’t realize it yet, but he has just traded his buddies in.
He’s traded them in for a lovely woman who promises to love and cherish him till death do they part.
But not the buddies. The groom didn’t realize it until the last minute, but there was nothing in the wedding vows about his buddies. Not a single word.
This is not an oversight. Once, there might have been a buddy clause in the marriage vows. But it has long since been stricken.
“FORGET YOUR BUDDIES,” it now says in big bold letters right on the marriage license itself. “PRETEND YOU NEVER KNEW THEM,” it reads underneath.
The buddies all gather off to the side, like soldiers who just lost another comrade, making jokes about which one will marry next and vowing that it won’t be them, even as they eye the pretty bridesmaids on the other side of the front lawn.
Soon, most of the buddies will fall, too. To some pretty young woman they think is the answer to all their problems, and may well be. A woman who can listen to their same funny stories for 50 years and smile and pretend she’s hearing them for the very first time. Because listening to the same stories and liking them is one of the secrets to a successful marriage.
“I wonder where they’re going?” my older daughter asks as the wedding party climbs into the limo.
“To live happily ever after,” I say.
“No, really,” my older daughter asks.
“Really,” I say. “Take it from me: With the right person, a wedding can be the start of a wonderful life.”
The two girls bookmark this piece of information, storing it away for future use, in case some May day they too decide that marriage is for them, the way this couple just did, the way their parents did 16 years ago.
Before today, they thought weddings were so simple. You just grabbed some poor schmuck, found a church and, boom, you were married.
Now they realize it takes much more. Sure, you still grab the poor schmuck. But there are lots of other things to remember. Guest lists to make. Flowers to order. Bubbles to buy.
And most of all, you have to remember to pick the right schmuck.
“There they go!” my older daughter says as the wedding party finally glides off down the road in the big white limo, off to dance the hokeypokey and begin a long, full life together.
“Good luck, folks,” I whisper as we start up the car and head off on our Saturday errands.
“I think I’m going to cry,” says the little girl.
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* Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.
