The wedding coordinator, Mrs. Allen, was seven hundred years old. As a somber volunteer for the church—where the elder Richmonds hadalsogotten married—and a fellow member of their country club, Mrs. Allen had barely tolerated me all day.
Now, as she steered me into the vestibule, her fingers pinching my elbow flesh right above the funny bone, I suddenly realized I needed to pee.
I glanced at the beige doorway leading into the beige sanctuary.
Couldn’t I just hold it? Because it was sixty seconds to go-time. We had momentum here.
But even just noticing the bladder situation made it worse.
Out of nowhere, it wasn’t just full—it was positivelytaut, like an overfilled water balloon.
How had I not noticed this earlier? Why did I have to wait until we were seconds out from the starting gun? I was wearing an Italian lace garter belt, for Pete’s sake!
I never could make things easy for myself, could I?
Mrs. Allen was poised to shove me through the doorway when I stopped short and turned to her with a wince of apology.
“I’m sorry. I need to use the ladies’ room real quick.”
Mrs. Allen shook her head in horror, like this was the worst thing she’d ever heard in all her seven centuries of life. “But the organist is about to start the processional,” she protested.
“Can you stall him?” I asked.
She didn’t likethatidea. She pinched her face up like I was really being a bridezilla.
But then she pressed on her little earpiece and said, “Tony, I’m going to need you to hold off on the processional. We’ve got a nervous bladder back here.”
As I hobbled off toward the ladies’ room, I wasn’t sure I loved being called “a nervous bladder,” like that was my whole identity. But there was no time to argue. It was going to take all the minutes I had just to contend with that lace garter.
The organ music somehow sounded louder in the bathroom, echoing around the hard surfaces.
In the stall, as I managed my undergarments and then hoisted that enormous crinoline-inflated skirt up around my waist, I decided that I really didn’t love organ music. The way it was so brain-meltingly loud. The way it smeared all the notes together. Plus, it always just sounded a little sinister, didn’t it?
Like someone was about to pop out of a coffin?
No offense to the organists of the world. But that was the truth of it. An organ was the last instrument I’d ever have chosen for my wedding.
Would a nice little grand piano have killed anybody?
The more I thought about it, the madder I got.
Nothing about this wedding was what I wanted. Every last detail had been determined by Mrs. Richmond. She’d picked the venue, and the color palette, and the florist, and the caterer.
Anytime I suggested anything, she shot it down with this overacted “Really?” that made me immediately follow up with, “Unless you have another idea.”
Quick spoiler: She always had another idea.
What can I say?
I wanted her to like me.
Also, it was a busy time for weddings in my family. My sister, Ashley, wasalsogetting married this year—six weeks after me,on a cruise ship, of all things—and so my mom had more than enough to worryabout. She was delighted that Mrs. Richmond wanted to do it all. And whenever Mrs. Richmond chose the most expensive possible option, she’d say to my mom, “Don’t worry. We’ll make up the difference.”
“You’re getting a much fancier wedding out of the deal,” my mother kept telling me. “Weneverwould have sprung for that margarita drink wall.”
True enough.
But now, on my long-awaited Big Day, I was kind of choking on all the terrible choices I’d agreed to.
