Happy & Healthy

WEDDING CRASHERS

by Maddy Stolk

Last weekend, a few of the nicest, most in love, and dearest people got married. I was their bridesmaid, and it was hell.

Being a bridesmaid, witness, or – even worse – master of ceremonies is hell anyway. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends very much and they probably love me too, otherwise they wouldn't ask me. But at the best parties of the year, you stand by as a troubleshooter/decorator/ad hoc caterer/social worker and can't even drink away that sadness properly, because in case of a raging fire, everyone looks to you for a solution.

At this moment, my count is 2 times bridesmaid and 5 times witness. Luckily, my friends know me well enough not to ask me to be the master of ceremonies; I was somewhere at the back when the organizational talents were handed out.

But it's not all doom and gloom, of course. The speeches are fantastic, where you can unabashedly declare your love for each other and sincerely thank them for putting up with you all these years. There's good food, with a bit of luck a semi-exotic location, and if you're really lucky, a nice hotel room too.

But sometimes it's just a torturous journey. And you get to know your friends from a different side – one you'd rather not have known. Or worse: you get to know your friends' friends.

‘I will personally make sure of that.’

So once, in the company where the groom was standing a bit further away from me than the bride, I pushed all my vetoes through at the first meeting of the bridal party. What did I prevent with that? That the happy couple was hoisted onto the shoulders of their friends with chair and all and had to answer a quiz question in turn. Whoever got it right was carried a step forward, and that's how they entered the party. I mean: with friends like that, you don't need enemies.

Sometimes the problems are of a more practical nature. Once I was in an idyllic little church on the French Côte d’Azur with a sandy bikini under my dress. Something about leaving the beach too late after the wedding breakfast I organized and a huge traffic jam, which made me storm in wearing a borrowed, just too tight B-choice dress from the other witness. That started to chafe after a while. Halfway through the service, that bikini really had to come off, and stripping in church is tricky, especially when you're sitting in the front row. Years of doing yoga three times a week came in handy as I folded myself into a pretzel to complete this task unseen. Going commando never felt so good, until I caught the venomous side-eye from the groom's mother. ‘I will pray for you,’ she hissed. Well, throw in a handful of Hail Marys too, because with one prayer you won't manage to redeem me from my sins. But thanks for trying. Amen.

Anyway, last weekend was one big highlight, until the husband of the bride's sister, with whom he has been married for 20 years and who knew both me and the bride as a little girl, threw his arms around me. ‘What happened?’ he wailed. ‘You were such cool, sexy, exciting women!’ He pointed in the direction of the bride with a full wine glass in his hand, so I didn't even get the chance to be offended by his use of the past tense. While the drinks splashed around, I maneuvered him outside. Where he loudly complained about the decline of feminine charm of girls in general and the bride in particular. For the rest of the party, I sat outside (I didn't dare take the unruly projectile back inside) and it promised to be such a long evening that I immediately abandoned the first commandment of a good witness – thou shalt not drink heavily.

The hangover started to set in during the intake, just like the stiff neck and the ominous tickle in my throat, because my coat was of course still inside and that's not handy., mid-December.
But then a little later, as the bride and groom left accompanied by crackling fireworks, a sobbing bride fell into my arms and said: ‘This was the best night of my life, let this never stop.’ And I heard myself say: ‘I will personally make sure of that.’
With all my love.