I tap my foot impatiently, one step up from the last time I stood on these stairs, and three steps down from the time before that. There’s a bottle of lime beer held behind my back, hidden in the folds of my black and white sundress. I’m wearing sunglasses and I keep my face tilted up to the sun, passively listening to the echo of the preacher’s voice. He’s not saying anything I haven’t heard dozens of times, and been a part of a least half that.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”
The beginning is as predictable as the conclusion, and though the middle can vary a bit, it’s still heavy with repetition. And it makes me wonder why there is a rehearsal. Everyone, even my sister standing on the topmost step, who has never before been blessed with bridesmaid duty, knows the drill. You walk, you stand, you smile benignly at the couple, and when they ask if anyone objects, you remain silent – no matter how many reasons you may have to speak out.
The place where the couple stands is shaped like a halved octagon with steps spilling down on every side, the bottom row surrounded by brick paths and greenery. The narrow flight of stairs behind the platform leads to the third floor balcony, and it’s at the beginning of these stairs that they put an archway of vines and flowers. There’s no doubt it’s beautiful, but I’ve no desire to stand in that spot. Should the day come that I have the option, I know I’ll disappoint my Papa by choosing a different path, one he doesn’t own. As immersed in the traditions of my family as I am (and there are a lot of traditions), a marriage is personal. And these steps have seen too many weddings, most of them filled with unspoken objections, for me to make them mine.
My cousin Ashley stands to my left, up a step, and her husband stands on the other side, down two from her. She whispers to me that she’s glad she doesn’t have to be his walking partner and I smile, amused because I had the same thought, though I know our reasons are vastly different. She simply wants a break, the feel of a different arm hooked through hers and the novelty of an unfamiliar gait. I, on the other hand, find him repulsive. I’ve learned far too much about his extra-marital habits since I stood gazing up at them on that platform ten years ago, and I already knew enough on that day. Just because she can take him back and forgive, doesn’t mean the rest of us forget – a fact he’s well aware of and, if the constant scowl is any indication, visibly bitter about.
There are three married couples in the wedding party and all of them were pronounced husband and wife on these steps. Two of them have children placed at intervals in front of each gender line, and my daughter stands in front of me – giggling next to Ashley’s. I tug on her ponytail and ask her to quiet down.
“Then I’ll ask if anyone can show just cause why this couple should not be wed, and so on”, the preacher says.
Ashley glances at me with a half grin and does a hacking cough to cover words I don’t catch, but I know what she’s implying. Thankfully it’s so quiet no one else catches them either. And though the majority of us are doing the same on the inside, and aren’t thrilled that our Papa is marrying again, we know better than to tell him so. He’s been with his fiancé for nearly eight years and he’s been pushing for this wedding for a very long time. Anyone that voices a concern is sure to be banned from “The Compound” indefinitely and we are all, in one way or another, too dependent upon him to risk it. I like to think of him as a mob boss – loving all, trusting none, and granting favors to those that please him most.
The bride, Tess, stands in the grass a few yards from the steps, watching with her arms crossed. One of the groomsmen’s girlfriends is standing in for her, as its bad luck for the bride to actively participate in the rehearsal. The wedding has come together in less than three months and Tess doesn’t care about a bit of it – it’s Papa that’s pushed for the traditional ceremony et al. She’s uncomfortable being the center of attention and I can’t say that I blame her, considering her rather checkered past. She answers every question with, “I don’t care”, or “it doesn’t matter”.
The preacher finally concludes his mock ceremony and asks us to bow our heads in prayer. I sigh as I do, knowing it will take awhile. He’s very loud and very long-winded. I notice that at the beginning of every sentence he says “please dear lord” and after the seventh or eighth time, it sounds quite comical.
I lift my eyes from the ground and glance around – it’s an old habit and one I enjoy. I’ve always found it interesting, watching people pray...or pretend to pray. To my right Claire is looking down, eyes wide open and focused on the ground while she scuffs her shoe against the pavement. Her fingers trace the words on the bottom of her t-shirt: “Whose baby is this?” To my left Ashley, Marie, Leigha, and Heather are all standing diligently with their eyes closed and hands clasped in front of them.
I branch out a bit, sweeping my gaze over the spectators and Tess, standing alone in front of the staircase filled with someone else’s family. I watch her laced fingers, thumbs rhythmically sliding over each other again and again, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she’s starting to get nervous or if her attitude of disinterest extends from the dress and decoration choices, to the man up there practicing his vows to her. I wonder who, out of the two of them, is making the greater sacrifice.
I know that she knows next weekend, when she’s standing under the archway, there will be silent objections. I wonder if she cares. But even more than that, I wonder how many silent objections of her own will be joining their ranks. And if, like the 12 of us standing watch, there are enough to fill these stairs.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Monday, March 14, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Always a bridesmaid (and they don't get ANY attention)
Last Wednesday night I stopped at Papa’s house on the way home. It’s something I do at least two or three times a week, just to say hey and see what’s happening. Usually it’s nothing much – just Papa sitting in his recliner watching TV, his Filipino girlfriend Tess flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom doing god knows what, my teenage cousin Dave sulking and texting on the couch, and Tess’s mom staring at a wall next to the ever present slow cooker of plain white rice. The dogs wander around in their winter sweaters, occasionally barking at each other and jumping from couch to couch.
Everything seemed to be in order. I kicked off my shoes and climbed up in the corner of the couch closest to Pop’s chair, tucking my legs under me. I’ve never been able to just sit on those couches. They’re enormous and squishy and if I sit correctly, my feet won’t touch the floor. They’re a bit like bouncy houses – you have to fight your way in and out of them.
We talked about holiday dinner plans and we talked about his health. We talked about football and we talked about the dogs. He told me he bought the kid a Barbie Jeep for Christmas, as well as one for my cousin’s little girl and bikes for the boys. And like so many Christmases before, I thought, “Honestly, who needs Santa Claus when you have a Papa?”
After twenty minutes of the usual conversation, it tapered off. I stared at the TV, not really watching, just relaxing. Tess sat at the dining room table behind us doing paperwork and the dogs finally settled down. That’s when he decided to spring it on me.
“Oh”, he said lazily turning his head toward me. “Tess and me are gettin’ married.”
The pause was only about two or three seconds, while my mouth hung slightly open and I glanced from one to the other. She looked back at me from the table; glasses slipping down her nose and pen poised over paper, clearly waiting for my reaction. He was less concerned, as always. Papa has always done exactly as he wished and people can either fall in line, or move out the way. He was already looking back at the TV, big spotted hands resting on his belly and large, bare feet lifted comically in the air.
“Wow! Congratulations!” I wasn’t happy or unhappy, just surprised. I didn’t think they’d ever get married, though she’s been around for about eight years now. A lot of drama surrounded their early relationship (drama that would take a very long to time to explain properly) and at times most of us wondered just what she was doing there. Was she employee, girlfriend, companion, or...something else? It seems we finally got a definitive answer.
“Thank you”, Papa said.
I glanced back at Tess and asked, “Are you excited?”
“Not really”, she replied in her choppy accent. “We together living already. No change.”
“Papa”, she called, “you excited?”
“Yeah, darlin’”, he said while winking at me, “I’m thrilled.”
She snickered and went back to her paperwork. He mentioned that it was going to be held there at his house in mid March and I sighed. I’d been planning a trip that I was very excited about...set for mid March. But missing Papa’s wedding would, in his eyes, be akin to spitting at them. Plans would have to be shifted.
Christmas morning started slowly with coffee cups, robes, and the distribution of presents. Then, as usual, it picked up speed – paper flew, unproductive skating around in socks and underwear ensued, and my godmother’s family came over to quickly exchange presents before we left en masse for The Grandmother’s.
Sheryl (that’s my godmom...but not my favorite one) walked in decked out in her red robe and Santa hat, coffee cup clutched in both hands, followed by her son Tony and daughter Sam.
We all met each other when Leigha and I started taking dance lessons – I was about nine and Lee was two. Sam and Lee were instant friends and quickly became inseparable, which in turn made our mothers inseparable. They became best friends and we’ve been so close to their family ever since, that the title of godmom was just given to Sheryl, to make explaining our closeness to outsiders a bit easier. (It’s also, I believe, a southern thing – calling people family when they really aren’t.) Two years ago, when she split up with her husband, Sheryl and Sam moved into the house next door. Ray was her roommate for a few months before he moved in with us, then she met her boyfriend Brad and he moved in with her.
Tony, at 27, is two years older than me and we’ve had...indiscretions...in the past that always make being around each other awkward. Or rather, I feel awkward because he clearly never got over me. And he feels a bit like unfinished business that I don’t particularly want to finish, yet somehow (only when he isn’t around and I temporarily forget how annoying he is) feel compelled to finish. He’s very smart, a bit nerdy, and cute...but he irritates the piss out of me. He’s one of those people that don’t listen when you speak; he just waits for his turn. And with an ego as large as mine, I need someone that’s more interested in what I have to say.
I was dashing past them, trying to get things together, when Sheryl stuck out her hand. I should have expected it, but I was as surprised by the ring on her finger as I was by Papa’s announcement a few days prior.
I hugged her and said the appropriate things, glancing over her shoulder as I did and catching sight of mom. She raised an eyebrow and I raised both of mine back, because I’ve never been able to just do the one without squinting comically. And though, due to my lack of facial dexterity, our expressions weren’t exactly alike, they certainly conveyed the same message. “Hmm...I wonder if he would have proposed so soon if Ray hadn’t just given mom a ring...”
Perhaps it was an uncharitable thought, but there’d been enough competition between Sheryl and mom in the past to warrant it. And of course we’d never say it aloud...in public.
She said they hadn’t set a date yet and that was the end of that conversation. We exchanged presents, oohed and aahhed over them, and they left. And in the rush to get our things together and make it to The Grandmother’s on time for lunch, I promptly forgot all about Sheryl’s diamond.
I returned to work yesterday feeling rather grateful. There are women out there that would love to quit their jobs and be stay at home moms, but I’m not one of them. Quit my job...yes. Twenty four seven parenting...no. After four days of opening presents, cleaning up, putting together puzzles, playing in the snow, coloring, and going to the movies – I was officially done. And I was proud of what I’d accomplished. I managed to be a fun, minimally irritated mom that didn’t once pick up a book and say, “Get outta here kid, ya bother me”.
I worked straight through the morning, quickly catching up with my inbox. By lunch time I had to slow down to make sure I had enough to last me through Thursday. So it was a little after that, when I was dicking around on Twitter and doing a lot of nothing, that my office phone rang, showing Papa’s office number.
“Hello?”
“Hey”, he shouted in my ear, the unmistakable echo of speakerphone making him even louder.
“Hey Pop. What’s up?”
“Tess has something to ask you!”
I could hear the murmur of several voices in the background and a few stray giggles.
“You want be my bridesmaid?”
“...what?”
“You want...”, she began, before being interrupted by Pop. “Do you want to be a bridesmaid in the wedding”, he shouted.
I paused, the loud static of the speakerphone echoing in my ear. “Um...sure. Thanks.”
A whole room full of people immediately burst out laughing.
“Ok”, he yelled, “talk to you later!”
“O-ok...”
I placed the phone back in the cradle and stared at the computer screen, my eyes glazing over. Then I began laughing in a very disturbing manner as my brain kicked into attack mode. It all hit me at once...
Ok. So I’m a bridesmaid again. How many is that now? Four? Five? Wait...I’m supposed to be in mom’s wedding in October, and now Papa’s in March? Wow. Sheryl is engaged...please no. I was just in a wedding three months ago. People are just picking me as a joke now. This is getting embarrassing. I’m THAT girl. And I can’t even use the excuse that I don’t care about getting married because that’s not necessarily true anymore. Did I really just think that out loud? It’s only because I’m selfish and want presents and a trip....probably. Oh.My.God. I’m going to be an old maid with a closet full of pastel dresses! This is not happening. Not only in MOM’S wedding...but my GRANDFATHER’S. I am so fucking sad right now. Couldn’t say no to Papa...unheard of. I think there’s a Xanax in my purse...
PING. My phone lit up with a text message from my friend and neighbor, Claire.
“OMG! Tess just called and asked me to be a freaking bridesmaid in their wedding!!”
“Me too”, I sent back. Wow, I thought, she’s not only asking the veterans, but also the neighbors.
PING. My phone lit up again, but not with Claire’s reply. It was from Marie, my cousin’s wife.
“Did you get asked to be a bridesmaid too?”
Sigh. Now she’s asking out-of-state relatives. “Yes.”
“lol. Did you say yes?”
“What the fuck was I supposed to say?!”
“I know, me too.”
“I just might off myself”, I said.
“You can do the remake of 27 Dresses!”
“I know. I hate you.”
“I’m just picturing 80s puff and lots of taffeta.”
“I’m praying that whatever she chooses...it’s black.”
“Me tooooo”, Marie replied.
“Help”, I sent to a guy friend a little while later. “Read my Twitter feed and report back.” I’d posted all of my bridesmaid/marital woes.
“I’m not sure I get the full tweet feed on the phone app. What’s going on?”
I broke it down for him again, in layman’s terms.
“I’m gonna need you to propose now”, I said.
A minute ticked by, then PING.
“Awwww....”
It’s official. I am a loser.
My geriatric family members have no trouble finding people that want to marry them. Rather than making a mock proposal or reminding me that marriage is for dummies in order to make me feel marginally better, my friends give me “awwwws” and two page texts of laughter.
Actually, that’s fine! I don’t need a partner. Just because everyone else is pairing off doesn’t mean I should feel pressured to follow suit. And that’s where all these weird feelings and panicky bridesmaid thoughts are coming from – peer pressure. By putting me in their weddings, these people are pressuring me to want my own. They aren’t my feelings – they’re projections! Uh huh.
Everything seemed to be in order. I kicked off my shoes and climbed up in the corner of the couch closest to Pop’s chair, tucking my legs under me. I’ve never been able to just sit on those couches. They’re enormous and squishy and if I sit correctly, my feet won’t touch the floor. They’re a bit like bouncy houses – you have to fight your way in and out of them.
We talked about holiday dinner plans and we talked about his health. We talked about football and we talked about the dogs. He told me he bought the kid a Barbie Jeep for Christmas, as well as one for my cousin’s little girl and bikes for the boys. And like so many Christmases before, I thought, “Honestly, who needs Santa Claus when you have a Papa?”
After twenty minutes of the usual conversation, it tapered off. I stared at the TV, not really watching, just relaxing. Tess sat at the dining room table behind us doing paperwork and the dogs finally settled down. That’s when he decided to spring it on me.
“Oh”, he said lazily turning his head toward me. “Tess and me are gettin’ married.”
The pause was only about two or three seconds, while my mouth hung slightly open and I glanced from one to the other. She looked back at me from the table; glasses slipping down her nose and pen poised over paper, clearly waiting for my reaction. He was less concerned, as always. Papa has always done exactly as he wished and people can either fall in line, or move out the way. He was already looking back at the TV, big spotted hands resting on his belly and large, bare feet lifted comically in the air.
“Wow! Congratulations!” I wasn’t happy or unhappy, just surprised. I didn’t think they’d ever get married, though she’s been around for about eight years now. A lot of drama surrounded their early relationship (drama that would take a very long to time to explain properly) and at times most of us wondered just what she was doing there. Was she employee, girlfriend, companion, or...something else? It seems we finally got a definitive answer.
“Thank you”, Papa said.
I glanced back at Tess and asked, “Are you excited?”
“Not really”, she replied in her choppy accent. “We together living already. No change.”
“Papa”, she called, “you excited?”
“Yeah, darlin’”, he said while winking at me, “I’m thrilled.”
She snickered and went back to her paperwork. He mentioned that it was going to be held there at his house in mid March and I sighed. I’d been planning a trip that I was very excited about...set for mid March. But missing Papa’s wedding would, in his eyes, be akin to spitting at them. Plans would have to be shifted.
*****
Christmas morning started slowly with coffee cups, robes, and the distribution of presents. Then, as usual, it picked up speed – paper flew, unproductive skating around in socks and underwear ensued, and my godmother’s family came over to quickly exchange presents before we left en masse for The Grandmother’s.
Sheryl (that’s my godmom...but not my favorite one) walked in decked out in her red robe and Santa hat, coffee cup clutched in both hands, followed by her son Tony and daughter Sam.
We all met each other when Leigha and I started taking dance lessons – I was about nine and Lee was two. Sam and Lee were instant friends and quickly became inseparable, which in turn made our mothers inseparable. They became best friends and we’ve been so close to their family ever since, that the title of godmom was just given to Sheryl, to make explaining our closeness to outsiders a bit easier. (It’s also, I believe, a southern thing – calling people family when they really aren’t.) Two years ago, when she split up with her husband, Sheryl and Sam moved into the house next door. Ray was her roommate for a few months before he moved in with us, then she met her boyfriend Brad and he moved in with her.
Tony, at 27, is two years older than me and we’ve had...indiscretions...in the past that always make being around each other awkward. Or rather, I feel awkward because he clearly never got over me. And he feels a bit like unfinished business that I don’t particularly want to finish, yet somehow (only when he isn’t around and I temporarily forget how annoying he is) feel compelled to finish. He’s very smart, a bit nerdy, and cute...but he irritates the piss out of me. He’s one of those people that don’t listen when you speak; he just waits for his turn. And with an ego as large as mine, I need someone that’s more interested in what I have to say.
I was dashing past them, trying to get things together, when Sheryl stuck out her hand. I should have expected it, but I was as surprised by the ring on her finger as I was by Papa’s announcement a few days prior.
I hugged her and said the appropriate things, glancing over her shoulder as I did and catching sight of mom. She raised an eyebrow and I raised both of mine back, because I’ve never been able to just do the one without squinting comically. And though, due to my lack of facial dexterity, our expressions weren’t exactly alike, they certainly conveyed the same message. “Hmm...I wonder if he would have proposed so soon if Ray hadn’t just given mom a ring...”
Perhaps it was an uncharitable thought, but there’d been enough competition between Sheryl and mom in the past to warrant it. And of course we’d never say it aloud...in public.
She said they hadn’t set a date yet and that was the end of that conversation. We exchanged presents, oohed and aahhed over them, and they left. And in the rush to get our things together and make it to The Grandmother’s on time for lunch, I promptly forgot all about Sheryl’s diamond.
*****
I returned to work yesterday feeling rather grateful. There are women out there that would love to quit their jobs and be stay at home moms, but I’m not one of them. Quit my job...yes. Twenty four seven parenting...no. After four days of opening presents, cleaning up, putting together puzzles, playing in the snow, coloring, and going to the movies – I was officially done. And I was proud of what I’d accomplished. I managed to be a fun, minimally irritated mom that didn’t once pick up a book and say, “Get outta here kid, ya bother me”.
I worked straight through the morning, quickly catching up with my inbox. By lunch time I had to slow down to make sure I had enough to last me through Thursday. So it was a little after that, when I was dicking around on Twitter and doing a lot of nothing, that my office phone rang, showing Papa’s office number.
“Hello?”
“Hey”, he shouted in my ear, the unmistakable echo of speakerphone making him even louder.
“Hey Pop. What’s up?”
“Tess has something to ask you!”
I could hear the murmur of several voices in the background and a few stray giggles.
“You want be my bridesmaid?”
“...what?”
“You want...”, she began, before being interrupted by Pop. “Do you want to be a bridesmaid in the wedding”, he shouted.
I paused, the loud static of the speakerphone echoing in my ear. “Um...sure. Thanks.”
A whole room full of people immediately burst out laughing.
“Ok”, he yelled, “talk to you later!”
“O-ok...”
I placed the phone back in the cradle and stared at the computer screen, my eyes glazing over. Then I began laughing in a very disturbing manner as my brain kicked into attack mode. It all hit me at once...
Ok. So I’m a bridesmaid again. How many is that now? Four? Five? Wait...I’m supposed to be in mom’s wedding in October, and now Papa’s in March? Wow. Sheryl is engaged...please no. I was just in a wedding three months ago. People are just picking me as a joke now. This is getting embarrassing. I’m THAT girl. And I can’t even use the excuse that I don’t care about getting married because that’s not necessarily true anymore. Did I really just think that out loud? It’s only because I’m selfish and want presents and a trip....probably. Oh.My.God. I’m going to be an old maid with a closet full of pastel dresses! This is not happening. Not only in MOM’S wedding...but my GRANDFATHER’S. I am so fucking sad right now. Couldn’t say no to Papa...unheard of. I think there’s a Xanax in my purse...
PING. My phone lit up with a text message from my friend and neighbor, Claire.
“OMG! Tess just called and asked me to be a freaking bridesmaid in their wedding!!”
“Me too”, I sent back. Wow, I thought, she’s not only asking the veterans, but also the neighbors.
PING. My phone lit up again, but not with Claire’s reply. It was from Marie, my cousin’s wife.
“Did you get asked to be a bridesmaid too?”
Sigh. Now she’s asking out-of-state relatives. “Yes.”
“lol. Did you say yes?”
“What the fuck was I supposed to say?!”
“I know, me too.”
“I just might off myself”, I said.
“You can do the remake of 27 Dresses!”
“I know. I hate you.”
“I’m just picturing 80s puff and lots of taffeta.”
“I’m praying that whatever she chooses...it’s black.”
“Me tooooo”, Marie replied.
“Help”, I sent to a guy friend a little while later. “Read my Twitter feed and report back.” I’d posted all of my bridesmaid/marital woes.
“I’m not sure I get the full tweet feed on the phone app. What’s going on?”
I broke it down for him again, in layman’s terms.
“I’m gonna need you to propose now”, I said.
A minute ticked by, then PING.
“Awwww....”
*****
It’s official. I am a loser.
My geriatric family members have no trouble finding people that want to marry them. Rather than making a mock proposal or reminding me that marriage is for dummies in order to make me feel marginally better, my friends give me “awwwws” and two page texts of laughter.
Actually, that’s fine! I don’t need a partner. Just because everyone else is pairing off doesn’t mean I should feel pressured to follow suit. And that’s where all these weird feelings and panicky bridesmaid thoughts are coming from – peer pressure. By putting me in their weddings, these people are pressuring me to want my own. They aren’t my feelings – they’re projections! Uh huh.
Whew. I’m glad I’ve got that sorted out.
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