Something borrowed, something blue

People love pageantry. Parades, graduations, the Texas Two-Step: There’s something about us that yearns to participate in, or watch others participate in, formal ceremonies that involve choreographed movements and speech. And if weddings aren’t the most pre-planned, pageant-tastic events in the human repertoire, I’ll eat my cummerbund.

I haven’t been married yet (this is what Charlie Sheen calls “winning”), but I’ve photographed a few weddings, so I’ve managed a sneak peek into what the planning process for one is like. There are physicists trying to get astronauts to Mars who deal with less stress. This is why “wedding planner” is an actual job that people have. If the average Joe and Jane Everyperson had to do it all themselves you’d see a lot more people jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, arguing the relative merits of a buffet-style reception the entire trip down.

There’s a new trend in wedding photography called the “first look.” In the past, if the bride and groom saw each other prior to the actual ceremony, it was considered bad luck; the groom would instantly turn into a toad, and the bride would be crushed under a cartoon anvil and totter around like an accordion. Or something. I haven’t been keeping up with the superstitions.

Nowadays couples want the photographer to capture their initial reactions to seeing their lifemates all gussied up for the big “I do.” The “first look” involves contriving a meet-up and having each party follow a specific protocol: Logan turns his back and covers his eyes, Betsy tiptoes up behind him and taps him on the shoulder, and then they have a tearful “ooh” and “ahh” moment which frankly feels weird if you’re a third party watching it all. I mean, I know my job is to capture this instance -- and it’s a great one -- but in a romance novel this scene would presage a bodice-ripping makeout session in a summer cottage hemmed in by azaleas. There’s no way to avoid feeling creepy when you’re wearing a camera around your neck in this scenario.

The pageantry continues with the ceremony itself, a highly rehearsed affair that always feels like it’s moving in slow-motion. That’s not to say it’s boring; just languidly paced. Whenever the members of the wedding party plod down the aisle in that now-standard stutter-step, I feel like rushing over to help them along -- “Gerald’s got a limp everyone, make way, make way!” If everything moved at real-world speed, the ceremony would be shorter than a Huey Lewis song and you’d be dancin’ the Funky Chicken before the sun goes down.

Luckily that’s not the case, because the vows are probably the best part of the whole deal. They warrant the extra time. At a religious gathering the vows are typically ones we’ve heard before, with the sickness and health and ’till death do you part, etc. Nice enough. But it’s a special treat when the couple writes their own vows, especially if one or both of them are unaccustomed to expressing themselves emotionally.

“Hedda, I remember when we met in college. When you managed not to hurl your lunch after doing your twelfth keg stand, I knew you were the one for me. Even now, 14 years later and with a bun in the oven, you really do it for me. Looking into your lizard-colored eyes turns my insides into liquid excrement. I look forward to spending the rest of my life pretending to like figure skating and never telling anyone ’cause it’d make me look like a total weenie. With this ring, I thee wed.”

“Trevor, the five years since I first saw you wearing a lampshade on your head at the office Christmas party have been the best five years of my life. You make sure to freshen your breath with Binaca after eating a basketfull of garlic rolls, and when we’re watching TV on the couch you always lean in the opposite direction to fart. Also, I really like how you pretend to like figure skating. With this ring … oh hell, just marry us, Elvis.”

At the reception, the women get to kick off their foot-busting high heels and the men can finally loosen their ties and drop any pretense of refinement. With the pageantry dutifully attended to, it’s time to loosen up a tad, maybe quaff a few beverages, and make a spectacle by kicking your nephew in the head while dancing too fervently to the “YMCA.” The pressure that’s built throughout the day can finally be released. Sometimes I feel like weddings are really just an excuse to get to this moment -- a floor-rumbling party where you can show your goody-goody sister that you still dance better than her.

It’s interesting to see how people fall into certain categories at a reception, usually based on age. The young people all shake their hips too much and know all the words to the hip-hop songs. The middle aged people ignore their better judgement and dance to all the synth-heavy ’80’s hits while sweating profusely into their expensive clothing. The older folks sit there and grumble, looking slightly lost, but find redemption when the DJ finally plays a big band instrumental from the days of Brylcreem and lead pipes. By the end of the evening everyone’s in a cake-and-champagne coma. There are worse ways to end a night.

Somehow the wedding ritual has evolved into this now-standard format. The newlyweds seem particularly giddy with this arrangement, and why not? They’re dressed to the nines and get to bask in everyone’s love and attention, not to mention their six new toasters. Next time you find yourself at a wedding, though, do me a favor and say a kind word to the photographer. By the time the rings are on all the right fingers, he’s probably on the verge of collapse, thinking about how long it takes to hit the water from the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge.