Yes, it’s wedding season in Cayman, when couples express their love for each other against the backdrop of a setting sun while a violinist plays the entire Air Supply discography.
“How the heck would you know?”, some of you might ask.
Because I’m in the entertainment industry, that’s why, y’cheeky individuals.
Hard as it is to believe, I have never been a bride … but I’ve played the role of maid-of-honour numerous times. It’s been a minute since last I held the train and flowers of the bride while she got on with the ceremony, which is probably a good thing, as – if one was to follow conventions – I’d still be called a maid-of-honour at this ripe old age of 56. I don’t know what would be worse; the whispers in the church of “OLD maid, you mean …” or being called ‘matron-of-honour’, which has got an unflattering ‘Downton Abbey’ ring to it. Do you think Lady Mary would ever allow herself to be called ‘matron’ while there was still breath left in her body? And we all know what a striking resemblance I bear to her, so …
Anyway, as I said, the nuptials definitely seem to ramp up around this time of year, when the weather is just cool enough for makeup to stay in place and the chance of rain is significantly lower.
Having worked on weddings for many years, I’ve seen it all – from barefoot and simple on the beach, to grooms riding in on horses and black-tie dress codes outdoors in the middle of August. Most follow the tried-and-true path, which usually includes the bride walking up the aisle with the groom waiting for her; signing of the register; the recessional after the no-take-backsies proclamation by the officiant; photos of everyone in the bridal party; then the reception.
It seems to be the thing these days to have a photographer capture a private moment of the groom facing one direction, and the bride coming up and tapping him on the shoulder, followed by him spinning around to see her in her full splendour before the ceremony. Called a ‘first look’, often the groom turns and gets all tearful at the stunning sight of her, it’s a beautiful snapshot, and then they take the respective places, ready to be wed.
Knowing myself as I do, despite the fact that it would leave very little time to get cleaned up and looking magnificent, I would not be able to resist blacking out some teeth, wearing a bad wig, and a ghastly outfit for the Big Reveal. And frankly, if someone was about to marry me, they would expect that anyway.
To recap: For some reason, I have never been a bride.
Thinking about the above, I actually Googled a bit to see if anyone had previously done it. I didn’t immediately find anything, but I did locate a video where one of the groomsmen pranked the groom, dressing up in a wedding gown and tapping him on the shoulder. It was hilarious – he was clearly so nervous and hyped up before that turn, followed by bursting into hysterical laughter when he saw his friend; what an amazing icebreaker.
You don’t have to have attended many weddings to get a sense of how they work. In fact, thanks to TV shows and movies, it wouldn’t matter if you hadn’t been to even one live – you’d still know that one of the big rituals is when the bride tosses the bouquet, with all her single female guests behind her, and whomever catches it is (supposedly) next to get married.
Let me debunk that load of old nonsense from now. Rising from the earth like the lovechild of a phoenix and Michael Jordan, high above the outstretched hands of others, I’ve snatched many a bouquet from the air into which it’s been thrown, and not a sniff.
As trends modernise, couples are beginning to remove that element from their day; something about being uncomfortable with the idea of singling out their unmarried friends to gather like ‘Hunger Games’ tributes.
I never felt that label more keenly when I sang at a friend’s wedding many, many years ago. All had been said and done; we were at the reception restaurant; the toasts had been made; I’d nervously warbled my way through a couple of songs; and then it was time for the tossing of the bouquet. I, and a number of women around my age, dutifully grouped together and waited for the projectile to hurtle in our direction. Without having to put in much effort, I ended up with the lovely collection of tied lilies in my hands. Yeah, yeah … I was the next one to get hitched. Now, where was the cake?
Turning to make a beeline for the multi-tiered sugary treat, I was stopped in my tracks by a helpful usher.
“And now …,” the emcee said, “ … it’s time for the tossing of the garter!”
Huh?
I had never heard of this particular game, but watched curiously as a gaggle of men reluctantly formed some sort of bundle in one place. The groom was standing at a distance with his back to them. What was going on?
Suddenly, he lobbed something resembling a flowery hair tie towards the heavens, and it arched near the ceiling before making a beeline for the huddle of gentlemen. Someone might as well have yelled out “GRENADE!!”, as they hurriedly shuffled minimum safe distance steps back from its perceived landing point.
Just before it hit the ground, a good Samaritan jumped in and grabbed it. It was only when the rest of the jape was revealed that I realised how indebted I was to him.
“And now, the keeper of the garter will place it on the leg of the lady who caught the bouquet!” the emcee announced with delight.
Exsqueeze me? The bride was a size 2, and I … was not. Not just that, but I had specifically worn a long dress because the tights I had on (many, manyyyyy years ago) were laddered to death. The only spots where they weren’t damaged were below the knees. Didn’t matter, no one was going to see beyond there; until now.
A chair was placed in the centre of the room, and I took a seat, as the Keeper of the Garter knelt before me, tiny elastic circle in hand. I’d swear I heard a deep intake of breath and the flexing of some muscles, as he prepared to do battle.
I pulled my skirt back to a respectable level, just above the knee, at the gates of Ladder City.
Off came the sensible shoe, and he began to put the garter around my foot – all very the-prince-and-Cinderella – trying to scooch it up past the heel and onto the ankle, one painful centimetre at a time. The garter was already straining, and we hadn’t approached the meaty calf yet, to say nothing of the Grade-A thigh with lots of marbling.
Unfortunately, you could have heard a pin drop, so every twang of the elastic popping in the garter rang out like a shotgun in a room with acoustics akin to those in a large shower. People had been laughing gaily along at the beginning, but then this had turned into a real spectacle. A hush had fallen over the crowd.
As he got close to the knee, the band had become more tourniquet than delicate, sexy adornment. We looked into each other’s souls and understood our unspoken words. If he attempted to clear the hamstring, odds were high the garter would snap and take someone’s eye out. it was time to stop this madness while I still had blood flow to the extremities.
‘Hurrah!” we both yelled, to a smattering of applause from an audience probably disappointed to not see what was going to be an obvious conclusion. At least they all got to keep their eyes intact.
My knight in shining armour quickly removed the now string-thin elastic vice from my leg, and handed it back to the bride, who could probably repurpose it as a headband.
Yessireeee, to repeat what I said at the beginning, it’s wedding season in Cayman, so here’s a top tip: leave the laddered tights at home.
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