Beginning the Bridal Brouhaha

My sister steph is taking a Travel Writing class. The stories they write are based on travels they have made. This is one of her papers from this past weekend! I thought it was amusing and so I share it with you!

“Bridesmaids dresses… a fitting? Okay… sure.”
No, my mind screamed. Not now… please not now! I’m going to get back, veg out in my rotted carrot-orange armchair, listen to Les Triplettes de Belleville, agonize over Kenneth Burke’s Grammar of Motives , and pretend to lead the fascinating life of a pseudo-intellectual undergrad. The last thing I wanted or needed was to watch my sister and her friends dress each other up and prepare for certain death in the form of iced wedding cakes, pink ruffles, and chitchat about that mysterious thing called love.
“Not tonight.”
“Yes tonight. She needs me to go… we can’t find another time.”
“Find another time, I’m tired.”
“Too bad… and if you don’t I’ll tell everyone what a horrible person you are and that you always chased us around with knives and told us you were going to cut us up into gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches when we were little.”
As usual my sister’s threats reached a completely irrational level within 2.5 seconds flat, and as usual I gave in, figuring the next two hours of driving would be much more pleasant without continuous whining from the backseat droning, “You’re such a total jerk,” and the vaguely empty, but nonetheless entertaining “I’m never letting my kids stay at your house when I have them.”
My sister and I had left Saturday evening to attend a baptism in Armpitoftheearth, Kansas which is very close to Whereintheworld, Nebraska. The town itself was quite nice; a very down-to-earth, close-knit, community-centered (and many other hyphenated descriptions) type of town. Established in a year that I don’t remember, and founded by a couple of guys whose names escape me, it was still a lovely little place on earth for a lovely little baptism in a lovely little church with a lovely little steeple and lovely little people.
However, besides the habitual dunking of fervent and sometimes overly-zealous black-tie, Bible-beating Protestants, these lovely little people had a highly important agenda which they felt compelled to include everyone in: matchmaking.
When you walked in the door of the church, as if on cue, the slaps on the back, the eye-rolls and winks, along with the none-too-subtle pushes toward a member of the opposite sex would begin in earnest. After all, if you weren’t married by the age of eighteen, then life was surely almost at an end.
“Hey there, whaddya think about that young man over there?” Slap on the back.
“The one with the unibrow and the fake hair piece?”
“No, the one with the inch-long nose hairs and comb-over!” Eye wink and roll. “Go on, go make friends!” Push.
After which, you would stumble over to a specimen who closely resembled your Aunt Mildred, discover he was a ninety-nine year old hula-hoop performance artist originally from Toejam, South Dakota, who loved dogs, walks on the beach, and that brand new denture-cleaning gel from Harvey’s Hardware.
So, faced with the choice between a bridesmaid’s dress-fitting or another matchmaking run-in at the church with peppermint-exhaling Father Time… I chose the lesser of Two Evils.
We arrived at the seamstress’ house approximately fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds too early, and decided that rather than introduce ourselves to a complete stranger and feel obligated to make small-talk, we would hide in our vehicle around the corner like big, brave grown-ups.
It was shortly after six o’clock in the evening, and since it is typically dark in Midwinter Kansas around this time, my sister and I were able to pull up discreetly behind a neighboring elm tree that bordered the woman’s property, kill the lights, and keep our (I’m sure highly-sought-after) identity hidden.
My sister’s head turned. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Quit scaring me.”
“No really… I swear I heard something.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Thoughts began to race through my head as I peered out of my dirt and fog-smeared windshield. What if something really did happen to us out here? Sure my sister’s friend (a.k.a. the B.R.I.D.E. – Brainlessly Ready for Instant Death Experience) would notice we were missing… eventually. But that could take hours. What if we had already been abducted? Shot? Sliced open with ancient knives of Hitchakapookatookie Indians who happened to migrate through here every year, and were in dire need of human flesh to roast upon the open flames of their spits?
Suddenly, a pale spectre floated onto the hood of our vehicle, coming swiftly toward the windshield, its mouth open, its claws bared and covered in blood, a silent scream echoing through its saliva-dripping fangs as… a little calico cat nimbly skidded to a halt, and sat licking its dainty little paw with all the aplomb of a courtly gentleman.
“CRAP!” “AAAAHHHHH!” “STUPID… CAT!”
Almost undone by this near-death experience my sister and I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar headlights of the B.R.I.D.E. pulled into the driveway of our destination. We awkwardly climbed from our vehicle, neither admitting that the antics of a feline could totally undo our composure, and headed inside.
As we walked through the front door I could feel the familiar panic clawing at my throat. Pink ribbons, lace, patterns, and billions upon billions of other feminine articles screaming “I’m getting married!” were laying around the room, ready to be seized and adroitly pinned upon all the poor, unsuspecting, sworn-to-remain-single females in the room – namely me.
My sister was quickly whisked upstairs to put on her dress as I remained below, sharing suspiciously similar long-suffering glances with the seamstress’ balding, armchair-prone, television-watching hubby.
“So what do you think?”
What do I think? I think people under twenty-five who get married are insane. I think I never want to see my sister in anything remotely resembling a wedding dress ever again. I think marriage is scary. I think I hope that pink will be banned as a color. And I think… I think it’s time to go home.
As we drive home, the headlights of my vehicle slicing through the dark, I remember how pretty my sister looked, how excited she is to be involved in this mating ritual that has been around a lot longer than me, and how, ultimately, I cannot control her life. Maybe it’s time for a different soapbox at these marriage thingy-ma-jiggers.
“Nice.”
“What?”
“Nice… you looked really nice.”
“Oh… thanks.” And we drive on in silence, both contemplating the future… pink bows and all.