No skipping heartedly down the aisle, no gentle bubble-blowing, no fidgeting as all attention is thrust upon my shoulders
April 12, 2016
As the pollen-infested summer approaches, there is only one thought on my mind: which of my 80 cousins are getting married and can I be the flower girl?
Ever since my eleventh birthday, I have hoped and dreamed that one day I may flaunt my satin ribbon and bonnet as my distant aunts coo and ahh at my delicate flower-throwing and bubble-blowing expertise. My grandparents would chuckle softly to themselves and whisper to my mother, “Oh Jennifer she’s cute as a button!”
That magical moment never came. My relatives never admired the bounce of my curls and the rosiness of my cheeks. Alas, my pre-teen years abandoned me and I was forced to reconcile the fact I had outgrown flower girl-dom.
Two summers ago, my aunt Hattie pulled me aside at one of our infamous family reunions.
“Lucy,” she said, “it would do me a great honor if you would be a bridesmaid at my wedding.”
I immediately started to weep. This was not the way things had turned out when I wrote them in my diary as a four-year-old. Let’s face it – when I was four years old I had only four goals. Avoid the lava monster underneath my bed, catch the tooth fairy in action, convince my baby sister I was actually her step-mother, and, most importantly, be a flower girl.
Amidst my tears of heartache and fury, I managed to sputter out a faint “yeah, sure”. Aunt Hattie looked dreadfully bewildered, but eventually she shrugged and made her way to the casserole table.
My Cousin Buffy recently got engaged to an alternative rock lyricist. During a brunch of corned beef and cabbage, Cousin Buffy plopped besides me. I gave her the side-eye. You bet I knew what was coming.
“Lucy,” she said, “I’m getting married soon and I would adore it if you would be my maid-of-honor.”
I looked her dead in the eye.
“Read my lips,” I said. “N-O.”
The perplexed emotion illustrated upon Cousin Buffy’s face made it apparent she understood my stance on her invitation.
No longer have my relatives requested my role as bridesmaid at their weddings. I look forward to a time in which some sympathetic future bride will gaze past my 5’8 frame and instead hand me a bouquet of purple gladiolas and white daisies.
“Go on sweetie,” they will say. “Live the dream.”
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