Last weekend I was the bride’s
sister. I didn’t volunteer or anything, it just happened to me. And oh boy,
how much I underestimated the effort. Had I known how much I was going to run
after my sister’s veil, surely I would have sacrificed a couple of inches of
heels in favour of sensitivity on my toes (which I have lost at the moment…).
It all started pretty normal: boy
meets girl and the girl happens to come home with a ring one day and be my
sister altogether.
Now, the morning of the wedding
was slightly different to the glamourous and relaxing experience I had been
fantasising about. At quarter to eight on Saturday (Saturday!) my sister
decided it was time to start the run like headless chickens activity to get to
the hairdresser. An hour later I was sporting glossy waves and massive shades
to hide the lack of makeup (am I the only one who bumps into everyone the one
day in a decade that step out of the house without makeup?).
The crisis started shortly after:
a fight for the mirror with direct natural light (I thought I would win this
one after losing my bed the night before under the excuse of ‘I am the bride
and the one and only who cannot be ugly tomorrow’). I should have known better:
In a house with only two permanent residents and one of them being my dad,
there is not an obvious need to keep several mirrors with natural light for
multiple sessions of makeup happening simultaneously. The next crisis was a
self-inflicted one: one should never ever try something new and, in particular,
I should never ever try something new that involves glue: I managed to finally
stick the fake eyelashes. I also managed to stick my fingers together as a
result.
After a lot of stress, with all
the eyelashes aligned (a few self-grown and a million fake), I put myself into
my dress just to be told the photographer was about to arrive. Perfect! Make up
done, nails destroyed (as usual I decided to do my nails right before anything
else which always results in tragedy), dress on… Hang on: why is the bride not
dressed? Oh, we needed a picture of the dress hanging… That was why.
So the photographer came in, took
a few pics of my sister, the dress, the make-up pots and… it was time to get my
sister dressed: someone should have told me or upload a tutorial in Youtube. It
was 4 of us to dress one bride: how difficult could it be? A lot!
First, my mum tried to get the
dress from the ceiling hanger: too heavy for her. So I climbed a little ladder
to get on top. My sister, in knickers and bra (because we have never seen her
naked since she was three and she was not planning to change that on the day)
got underneath. And the 4 of us (including one of my sister’s friends, my dad,
who happened to be the godfather in a swallowtail and my mum) started looking
for her through the dress. My dad start fretting that she is going the wrong way (the wrong way inside a dress???
How many turns could she take?) when I finally saw the head and started shouting:
‘I can see the head, I can see the head, just push a bit!’ For a minute, the
only reason why I thought I wasn’t a midwife was because I was still on top of
the ladder. Finally the head emerged and I realised I looked like the goat the
gipsys take with them across Spain, stopping at every single town, singing for
her and getting her on top of the ladder. With the only difference that the
goat is self-sufficient to get up and down and I wouldn’t figure out how to do
it.
I finally managed to get down
just to land on the next issue: my sister had gotten rid of her bra to get
herself into the bra attached to the dress. All good until I hear: ‘could you
please hold this boob for me?’ Excuuuuuuuuuse me!! Can I hold what?? The same
sister I hadn’t seen naked for more than 25 years was now asking me to hold her
boob? And then I hear: ‘What is the problem, can you hold this one or not, I
need to hold the other one to try to get the bra into the right place’. And
there I was holding one of my sister’s boobs… Before that I couldn’t even tell
if they really existed or they were a legend as I have never seen them!! Never
mind!!
So once my sister was dressed, we
managed to put on the veil the wrong way and then correct it and get downstairs,
the next challenge started: getting her into the classic car allowing enough
breathing space for my dad and without staining, wrinkling or destroying the
dress. At last we managed and gave her instructions to wait to leave as we (all
the helping women) needed to make it to the church and she had forgotten to
book a parking space for us. Therefore if she wanted to get out of the car, she
really needed to give us time to walk from the parking lot.
We parked, got off the car and my
mum started running on her heels as if there was no tomorrow (my sister had
forgotten to leave some stuff at the hotel and she was on a mission to get to
the reception before my sister made it to the church). So basically my sister’s
friend and I were left on our own devices. Not a very good idea considering she
didn’t know the town and I had been so busy moving countries that I didn’t know
where she was supposed to get married. Running after my mum and when we had
finally lost her, we saw a man in a swallowtail. So we followed him trusting he
was a guest and knew his way. We could have ended up in any other wedding... We
were following him merrily while I fought my headdress which happened to be all
I wanted (flowers and feathers) together with my worst fear (own life), when we
saw the bride’s car at the top of the hill. Oh dear, we were now making it
there after the bride. So we did the only thing one can do in that situation:
we ran even faster in 5 inches of heels… Breathless and stressed we got there
to start kissing hello all my sister’s guests, just to turn round and realise
my sister was stuck inside the car. So while my mum ran again wildly towards
the groom to give him a flower to match my sister’s bouquet, we ran like
ostriches (legs first, body hopefully following) to help my sister and fulfil
our fantasy of being Pippa Middleton just for a while (basically the sex object
rather than the know-it-all sister in law). Shame my bum’s size is more aligned
with the Kardashians than with the Middletons. So we walked after my sister,
managed to be discreet and not seeing but keep the veil looking good, we didn’t
trip over the ancient church door that seemed to have been put in there to
prevent anyone not enough faith from making it alive to the inside. And we
finally made it to the first row (yes! She remembered to book us that place;
only she forgot to tell one of the witnesses to sign the marriage certificate
that she should also be there). So while the priest made an effort to carry on
with his job, the whole of my 1.75 metres plus 12 centimetres of heels plus 10
centimetres of headdress tried to move quietly around the church to find the
missing witness. If you have ever tried to move around with my dimensions you
know, moving discreetly is never a reality. If you add up to the equation a
headdress that elevated another 10 centimetres over my head, that was mission
impossible. But finally I managed to make it back to my place with the witness.
So the rest of the ceremony went
on, with me only panicking on the 10 times the priest mentioned children and
asked my sister and my brother in law if they agreed on having them. My sister,
who has always being against pregnancies, bodily functions, anything that
drools without control and anything that she doesn’t consider glamourous
started to move uncomfortably on the seat (as much as she could considering the
dress was around 15kg, and so rigid that after the ceremony we asked her to
reverse as it was easier than turning her round…). And we all started praying:
‘please, God, make her just accept it or this will be over…’. So she did (yes,
we owe the church around 100 lit candles for the miracle it delivered).
And the rest went with only a
couple of difficult occasions: when people asked for the newly married couple
to kiss (my sister and kissing in public don’t go together… more praying) and
when someone decided to give her a whip. Luckily my sister was on the mood. Any
other day that person would have been shouted into the thinking corner.
And that is it, my sister is
married and I cannot feel my toes any more.
Cheers!
Lara Jones
>Me encanta tu post :) Por cierto si te interesan las oposiciones a celador en Extremadura... Mira mi web.
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