to ridicule! Still, I was relieved when she took responsibility for dumping them. Given my history with men, I can’t afford to be sending that kind of message out to the universe.
When I agreed to be her bridesmaid, Emma promised to show some restraint. “Don’t worry, I won’t get all bridey,” she said moments before launching herself into a vortex of white lace and tulle. After that, it was Fairy-tale Wedding by the book. Pathetic optimist that I am, I even believed her when she told me she’d keep the bouquet toss simple. “Just the basics,” she said.
Many have been less considerate. They embraced the variation on the tradition where the woman who catches the bouquet has to dance with the man who catches the garter because they’re destined to marry each other. People love seeing the look on my face as the garter-catcher—usually a single-for-good-reason guy in a bad suit—comes to claim his dance. It makes for great wedding video footage. Take the following scene from Emma’s, running unedited at nine minutes:
Emma, resplendent in $2000 worth of strapless, beaded taffeta, is beaming from the podium as she prepares for the bouquet toss. The camera cuts to the crowd of single women, where my big, bushy head looms above the crowd. There’s a sullen expression on my face. Lola stands guard over me, a drink in one hand, a partially hidden smoke in the other. Two eager young women flank me. They’re sizing me up and, judging by their smirks, they don’t consider me much of a threat. Lola pretends to burn one of them in the butt with her cigarette and we both make faces behind them. We have forgotten the camera.
Emma winds up for the pitch and the video slips into slow motion. The bouquet shoots out over the crowd. The camera captures my expression as I assess the bouquet’s trajectory. Closer…closer… The two youngsters jockey for position, elbowing me. I step backward to avoid them. Arms outstretched, they hurl themselves into the air. You can see the hope on my face: this time I am finally going to miss it! But no, the teens careen into each other. One stumbles off her platforms and into Lola, who “accidentally” spills red wine on the teen’s tight white dress (never wear white to a wedding). The bouquet travels like a missile over their perfectly coiffed heads, my hands go up and…yes! It’s a direct hit, ladies and gentlemen. Turning, I hold the bouquet high and curtsy for the crowd. The teens check out my butt and sneer, confirming my suspicion that there is no good angle in a yellow stretch-poly frock.
I offer the photographer a big, fake smile before stepping to the sidelines to make way for the single men. The D.J. cues the stripper music and Bob, the groom, removes the garter from Emma’s leg and snaps it into the air. There’s a flash of blue as it streaks across the dance floor, the camera panning to follow its path. Over the heads of the single men it goes, until its flight is suddenly arrested…by my forehead. It snaps my head back with its force, then drops into the bridal bouquet I’m still holding. Heads are swiveling. No one knows where the garter landed. The videographer speaks up: “Libby caught it!”
Stunned, I pluck it from the bouquet and hold it aloft. The single guys turn as one and race toward me. There’s a brief struggle as they grab my arms, my waist, my legs and hoist me into the air. I stop resisting when I realize that the more I thrash, the less coverage my dress provides. The D.J. plays the Village People’s “Macho Man” and the guys pump me up and down to the beat. As the song ends, they deposit me—quite gently, really, when you consider the trays of tequila slammers they’ve consumed—before the bride and groom. I surrender the garter with a dizzy flourish. Bob snaps the garter again; this time a tall guy grabs it casually out of the air. Emma grins in my general direction before whispering something in the D.J.’s ear. He steps to the mike: “Would Libby McIssac please step forward again? Tim Kennedy will now place the garter on Libby’s leg and the two will share a special dance.”
I look stricken, but Tim is smiling as he walks toward me and bows. He leads me to a chair in the center of the dance floor. I lift my own bridesmaid gown and place my foot on the chair. Tim slips the garter over my foot and slides it up my leg. The video does not capture the snag in my thirty-dollar stockings.
“Let’s give Libby and Tim a hand, everyone,” the D.J. shouts. “We’ll see them united in wedded bliss sometime soon!” (I hate this guy.)
The camera follows us briefly as we start dancing, then finally cuts back to the bride.
“Well, Libby,” Tim says, “are you always this popular at weddings?”
“I’m afraid so. I can’t help competing with the bride for attention,” I say. I’m starting to breathe again, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“Very bad form.” He’s smiling and although I’m staring over his shoulder, I can’t help but notice it’s a nice smile.
“Not as bad as beating a bride senseless with her own bouquet. She deserves it for this dress alone!”
“Oh no, it’s very becoming,” he says, laughing. When I roll my eyes, he adds, “I’ve seen worse.”
My blood pressure must be entering normal range, because it’s starting to register that Tim is quite handsome. He has that dark-haired, blue-eyed combination I can never resist. Eventually I summon the nerve to look right at him, and miracle of miracles, I’m staring into his forehead. Without these stupid yellow pumps, he’s got an inch on me. Maybe Fate isn’t heartless after all.
“Let me get you a drink—and some ice for that welt on your forehead,” Tim offers as the song ends.
He pulls a chair out for me before heading to the bar. He probably feels sorry for me, but hell, I can live with that. Besides, I need a few minutes to recover before joining the bridal party again. My left foot has begun to tingle; the damned garter is cutting off the circulation. I remove it with more uncharitable thoughts about Emma. I’m mad enough to march over there and swing her around by her veil. Instead, I take a few cleansing breaths and smile over at Tim in the bar line. He smiles back. That’s when it occurs to me that Bouquet 13 could be my lucky one. It’s a cut above any other I’ve landed, the rosebuds being a deep red and fully two inches long. At least Emma had the decency not to get a substandard minibouquet for tossing, as brides used to, before my fame grew and I started making demands. Now I tell them straight out, if you’re going to put me through this, I expect the real thing.
My nose is buried in the bouquet when Tim returns carrying two highballs of bourbon and a bag of ice. I drop the flowers on the table, take the ice and hold it to my forehead.
“Technically, this belongs to you,” I say, offering the garter to him.
“Don’t you want to keep it as a memento? The bouquet won’t last forever, you know.”
“I won’t have any trouble remembering this evening. Emma will torment me with the video for decades to come.”
“What are friends for?”
The adrenaline is draining away faster than I can replace it with bourbon. Tim takes the ice pack back and wraps it in a linen napkin. I hadn’t even noticed the water dripping down my arm and onto my five-hundred-dollar yellow dress. Spinning the garter on my finger and smiling as coyly as a girl with a bespattered décolletage can, I ask, “Your first?”
“Yeah. Every guy dreams of this.” Uh-oh. He’s funny too.
“All those years in Little League culminate in this one perfect moment.”
“I imagine you train constantly yourself.”
“Not at all, I’m a natural.”
“Care to share your stats?”
