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Oldest Living Bridesmaid Tells All
My first post in many months is dedicated to my new brother-in-law Dennis, who I love.
Yes, as a matter of fact, it was that very same wedding, to the very same guy.
So the entire six months between re-engagement announcement and wedding day were somewhat fraught. Everyone involved ranged from slightly wary to utterly gobsmacked. Anything could, at any time, go horribly awry; given the history, bad feelings between or among bride, groom, families, and/or friends had the potential to resurface at any point. So it all really could've gone either way.
And it was all, of course, perfect. Not that perfection was a sure thing, or even likely, at any point.
First was the largest, most brightly colored elephant in the room: my sister and then-future brother-in-law had, in the not-too-distant past, shattered each other's hearts, with entire extended families sucked into the drama and agony. I am not claiming that the metaphorical bloodletting wasn't necessary and, ultimately, constructive, in the same way, as Pete Clemenza points out, a Five Families war is, every dozen years or so; Diana and Dennis are a much healthier couple for it, and we are more enlightened support networks in return. But their slow bleed-out of a break-up was sort of like when your high school boyfriend dumped you; all your BFFs rallied around while you sobbed and pulled out your hair and wailed, "Why? WHY? WHHHHYYYYYYYY???" And in their panicky desire to make the pain go away, they'd tell you how much better off you were without him, and you'd gradually tell yourself that yeah, the BFFs were right; maybe he wasn't all that to begin with. So then you'd tell the BFFs every awful thing he ever did over the course of your relationship: "He kicked my cat in the head! He knocked up three other women while we were dating, including a novitiate in the Carmelite order! He hates REM!" So the BFFs would grab onto the cat-kicking, nun-impregnating, and REM-dissing as definitive proof that High School Boyfriend was and always would be a dick / loser / jerk / prematurely balding, vaguely cross-eyed, hairy-in-all-the-wrong-places, sweaty, overweight Young Republican with bad breath, an IQ of 64, and zits on his back. (High School Boyfriend: I'm kidding. Everyone else: No I'm not.)
In addition, when Princess Di dropped her little bomb on January 31, that the previously catastrophic almost-wedding was back on for July 31, I weighed approximately 423 pounds. So when she asked me to be her matron of honor – emphasis, apparently, on "matron" – my initial, admittedly self-centered response was, "B-b-b-but I look like Free Willy!" Because it is, after all, all about me. I have written many a column detailing my never-ending weight woes, which at various points in my four-decade-long career in eating have been attributable to every conceivable excuse, from emotional crises to pregnancy complications, but which on January 31, 2010 were entirely due to my prevailing attitude at the time: "Mmmmm. Food. Good. More." Reflecting momentarily on the miserable failures that constituted my years of weight loss efforts, I resigned myself to being Free Willy in a shantung silk ball gown.
Nobody looks good in yellow, so the bride assigned the color to the most prominent (not to mention fattest) wedding party member? I couldn't follow the logic. Was she saying that, to whatever extent I was able to look good, I happened to be able to pull off yellow? Or was she saying that, since she chose Free Willy as her main bridal attendant, she might as well slap her favorite color on me, even if it was yellow? I mean, if you're having an enormous marine mammal flopping around the altar at your wedding, it's gonna be distracting, regardless of what color said marine mammal was wearing. (It didn't occur to me that she wanted to reserve her favorite color for her favorite person.) But resigned though I was to being Free Willy in a shantung silk ball gown, I just couldn't, could not, accept being Free Willy in a yellow shantung silk ball gown, because despite my sister's optimism, when I wear yellow, my skin looks green. And really, given the choice between being a green bridesmaid in a yellow dress, or being a green orca in a yellow dress, I was going with bridesmaid.
I am ashamed to admit this re-engagement drove me directly into the stern but loving embrace of Jenny Craig. I know, I know; I caved to both the Diet-Industrial AND Wedding-Industrial Complexes. I remain entirely ambivalent about the weight loss. But for what it's worth, I did reach my goal weight by the wedding. Three hundred pounds in six months; not too shabby. Let us now hope that I enjoy a Bertinellish rather than Alleyesque maintenance. (Oh, and I also let myself spend far too much time in the sun, hoping the tan would offset the green.)
I was much better behaved at the actual wedding. It was, as mentioned, glorious. Perfect weather, amazing food, kick-ass band, lots of love. And wariness conquered, at least on my part. I mean, heck, who am I to judge anyone else's relationship? And anyway, I might not know a whole lot about love and marriage, but I do know some things, and one of the things I know is that marriage is a privilege. It is a privilege when someone extends a desire to share his or her entire life with you. That someone wants to be with you forever, live and breathe with you, find a common rhythm to move you through life together and a common pulse to keep you both alive, and entangle him- or herself in you in every way there is, good and messy – that's a privilege and an honor and a blessing, and whatever reservations I may have had, I know that Diana and Dennis consider themselves privileged and honored and blessed to be with each other. And that is all I need to know.
Much of my 2010 has been consumed with the wedding of the century, that of my sister, Princess Di (a/k/a "Miss Monopoly") and brother-in-law Dennis (a/k/a "Dennis"), which finally took place on July 31, same day as Chelsea's. (If you were wondering why the Obamas were not at the Clinton wedding, now you know.) Longtime Hausguests might be asking themselves, "Is this the same wedding that was supposed to have taken place in May 2008 but was called off in February 2008?" – those of you who remember my regular updates from back in the day (back when anything to do with the Hausfrau blog could be described as "regular"), about dress shopping, uncle anticipating, bridal showering, breaking up, breaking down, and, ultimately, drowning-slash-gambling-away our sorrows in Atlantic City over the lost weekend for which the original wedding had been scheduled.
Yes, as a matter of fact, it was that very same wedding, to the very same guy.
So the entire six months between re-engagement announcement and wedding day were somewhat fraught. Everyone involved ranged from slightly wary to utterly gobsmacked. Anything could, at any time, go horribly awry; given the history, bad feelings between or among bride, groom, families, and/or friends had the potential to resurface at any point. So it all really could've gone either way.
And it was all, of course, perfect. Not that perfection was a sure thing, or even likely, at any point.
First was the largest, most brightly colored elephant in the room: my sister and then-future brother-in-law had, in the not-too-distant past, shattered each other's hearts, with entire extended families sucked into the drama and agony. I am not claiming that the metaphorical bloodletting wasn't necessary and, ultimately, constructive, in the same way, as Pete Clemenza points out, a Five Families war is, every dozen years or so; Diana and Dennis are a much healthier couple for it, and we are more enlightened support networks in return. But their slow bleed-out of a break-up was sort of like when your high school boyfriend dumped you; all your BFFs rallied around while you sobbed and pulled out your hair and wailed, "Why? WHY? WHHHHYYYYYYYY???" And in their panicky desire to make the pain go away, they'd tell you how much better off you were without him, and you'd gradually tell yourself that yeah, the BFFs were right; maybe he wasn't all that to begin with. So then you'd tell the BFFs every awful thing he ever did over the course of your relationship: "He kicked my cat in the head! He knocked up three other women while we were dating, including a novitiate in the Carmelite order! He hates REM!" So the BFFs would grab onto the cat-kicking, nun-impregnating, and REM-dissing as definitive proof that High School Boyfriend was and always would be a dick / loser / jerk / prematurely balding, vaguely cross-eyed, hairy-in-all-the-wrong-places, sweaty, overweight Young Republican with bad breath, an IQ of 64, and zits on his back. (High School Boyfriend: I'm kidding. Everyone else: No I'm not.)
In addition, when Princess Di dropped her little bomb on January 31, that the previously catastrophic almost-wedding was back on for July 31, I weighed approximately 423 pounds. So when she asked me to be her matron of honor – emphasis, apparently, on "matron" – my initial, admittedly self-centered response was, "B-b-b-but I look like Free Willy!" Because it is, after all, all about me. I have written many a column detailing my never-ending weight woes, which at various points in my four-decade-long career in eating have been attributable to every conceivable excuse, from emotional crises to pregnancy complications, but which on January 31, 2010 were entirely due to my prevailing attitude at the time: "Mmmmm. Food. Good. More." Reflecting momentarily on the miserable failures that constituted my years of weight loss efforts, I resigned myself to being Free Willy in a shantung silk ball gown.
Nobody looks good in yellow, so the bride assigned the color to the most prominent (not to mention fattest) wedding party member? I couldn't follow the logic. Was she saying that, to whatever extent I was able to look good, I happened to be able to pull off yellow? Or was she saying that, since she chose Free Willy as her main bridal attendant, she might as well slap her favorite color on me, even if it was yellow? I mean, if you're having an enormous marine mammal flopping around the altar at your wedding, it's gonna be distracting, regardless of what color said marine mammal was wearing. (It didn't occur to me that she wanted to reserve her favorite color for her favorite person.) But resigned though I was to being Free Willy in a shantung silk ball gown, I just couldn't, could not, accept being Free Willy in a yellow shantung silk ball gown, because despite my sister's optimism, when I wear yellow, my skin looks green. And really, given the choice between being a green bridesmaid in a yellow dress, or being a green orca in a yellow dress, I was going with bridesmaid.
I am ashamed to admit this re-engagement drove me directly into the stern but loving embrace of Jenny Craig. I know, I know; I caved to both the Diet-Industrial AND Wedding-Industrial Complexes. I remain entirely ambivalent about the weight loss. But for what it's worth, I did reach my goal weight by the wedding. Three hundred pounds in six months; not too shabby. Let us now hope that I enjoy a Bertinellish rather than Alleyesque maintenance. (Oh, and I also let myself spend far too much time in the sun, hoping the tan would offset the green.)
I was much better behaved at the actual wedding. It was, as mentioned, glorious. Perfect weather, amazing food, kick-ass band, lots of love. And wariness conquered, at least on my part. I mean, heck, who am I to judge anyone else's relationship? And anyway, I might not know a whole lot about love and marriage, but I do know some things, and one of the things I know is that marriage is a privilege. It is a privilege when someone extends a desire to share his or her entire life with you. That someone wants to be with you forever, live and breathe with you, find a common rhythm to move you through life together and a common pulse to keep you both alive, and entangle him- or herself in you in every way there is, good and messy – that's a privilege and an honor and a blessing, and whatever reservations I may have had, I know that Diana and Dennis consider themselves privileged and honored and blessed to be with each other. And that is all I need to know.
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Comment by G.G. on September 25, 2010 at 4:55am -
Woo! Wow! Whoa! Nice! *sniff* - Yep that sums it up.
Ahhh, HF is back. :) You've been missed. Congrats to your sister.
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Comment by DLBK on September 25, 2010 at 5:44pm -
You definitely don't look anything like Free Willy in that picture! Great post!
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Comment by Hausfrau on September 26, 2010 at 9:17am -
Thanks, all. I've decided to make twice a year lunch dates with the recently rediscovered high school boyfriend, just to keep me from gaining all the Free Willy weight back.
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Comment by mcglory13 on September 26, 2010 at 9:46am -
On the other hand, other than Sea World Free Willy has no known predators and is pretty much king of the ocean. So there are advantages. :)
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Comment by Hausfrau on September 26, 2010 at 9:58am
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mcglory, you're right -- the husband and children were way more afraid of me six months ago than they are now, and a lot more got done around here...
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Comment by MamatothaMax on September 26, 2010 at 12:38pm -
Great post! My sister recently eloped so I was spared (thank goodness).
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Comment by Hausfrau on September 26, 2010 at 8:18pm
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Hon, OK -- (a) just eeew; if I noticed your comment earlier than 7 hours after it was posted, I would've deleted it, because eeeew; and (2) do you realize you said I get "done" without free will? I don't even want to know where that slip came from.
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Comment by NotClooney on May 28, 2011 at 4:49am -
New post! New post! This one is as stale as Dennis. Just kidding Den.
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