Monday, September 25, 2006

Going To The Chapel

My younger sister is getting married (if ever there was a sentence to make you feel old).

She's in the process of picking out chairs and flowers and dresses. It's completely charming to watch the baby in our family go through this process, which is one of the most magical, albeit stressful, times in a woman's life.

Magical because you get to play fairy princess, choose a ball gown and a court, and set up a day which caters to every fleeting Barbie and Ken fantasy in existence.

Stressful, because you have to involve other people in it.

My mother is already planning to kidnap the wedding gown and hold it hostage at her house until the wedding day, because it is her belief that no one outside the immediate family (and this does not include my father, by the way) should see the gown until the wedding day. And don't get me wrong: this is a fine belief. When you are the bride. Which my mother is not. Nevertheless, she is in charge of the gown.

My father has also been full of helpful suggestions, like perhaps booking the reception in a venue which is in the strip mall next to the local Food Lion. I don't even want to think of what motivation might lie within a person who owns a bona fide beautiful back yard, but would still suggest his daughter toast her union in close proximity to cereal and beets.

There is also me. In a rare, annoying moment (humor me here), I couldn't restrain myself from suggesting that including a list of stores you've registered in is possibly only exceeded in tackiness by being married in the nude.

My poor sister is listening to suggestions left and right, and I don't even want to think about what her poor fiance is thinking. Surely some version of perhaps having bought too few rings, given that he seems to be planning a wedding with an entire family (his family, good people that they are, simply plan to show up).

My husband is simply glad to listen to me wax on about wedding day timelines and proper heel height to dress length ratio without having to write any checks himself. But never fear - that leaves the rest of us - two parents, two sisters, a bevy of friends and a score of aunts, to leave my sister with zero doubt that she is doing everything absolutely wrong.

Hey, it's part of the territory. You wanna wear the dress, you gotta do the time. It's a bona fide rite of passage which leaves brides with two choices: grimacing silence or being labeled a bridezilla. I suspect my sister will fall somewhere in between, but no matter what she does or says:

You'd better believe that dress will be at my mama's house.

Good times. :)

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