A Question of Formality

At sixteen I received my first wedding invitation. It was written on something akin to blotter paper, was deep yellow in colour and had a russet orange sun symbol imprinted on the front. The traditional white silhouetted couple had been replaced with one ageless face encircled by a garland of flames. His or perhaps it was her eyes, for the face also evaded sexual certainty, held a philosophical gaze: resolutely peering out from under half-closed lids seemingly awaiting that prevalent and timely question, “Wanna toke?”

Let history note, it was MY g-g-generation that was the first to wrench wedding etiquette from the whit-gloved grip of Emily Post and begin the uneasy task of rewriting marital convention.

Under normal circumstances, my own personal invitation to a friend’s wedding would have marked a solid step up into the adult world. Even Ann Landers would have approved. However, it was my parents’ conviction that any wedding invitation which counsels, “Informal – bring own cushion” offered merely a tentative step, laterally. In other words, they requested that I sidestep this mock marriage altogether. Miss this wedding? Never!

The couple were married by a freshly ordained, pay-as-you-play minister who catered exclusively to creative weddings for the unchurched. Being without pulpit, himself, or at least between congregations as it were, he saw the wisdom not to mention the revenue, in loosening his clerical collar, donning a pair of denims and meeting the romantic whims of to-be-weds everywhere. He tracked them through fields and over streams, fanning the flames of their nubile bliss while the loving couple recited passages from Kahlil Gibran and offered their guests daisies with sticks of jasmine incense. No doubt this transitional phase in wedding form posed some difficulty for those well-versed in Emily’s Book of Bridal Do’s and Don’ts but we adapted – Survival demands it.

We learned to accept weddings as elaborate theme parties; a romantic reflection of this particular couple’s unique relationship. If they met at the beach, vows were exchanged along the windswept shoreline with reception by the snack bar. If they courted on rural route number three, the entire entourage of wedding enthusiasts trudged through a whole acre of corn just to watch the couple exchange nuptials by the barn. Ain’t love grand?

Now when I receive a wedding invitation I am fully prepared to polish the chrome on my scuba gear, dust off my saddle or call up rent-a-chute, as the occasion dictates. Nothing fazes me, or so I thought.

The invitation arrived Tuesday for a wedding on Friday. It was printed on dark red blotter-type paper. Déjà vu? No, it’s a young couple from a new era – Goth. On the front the card simply says, “Surprise”. Having thought myself securely beyond surprises and while admitting to a proportional loss of adrenalin rush with increasing chic, I am happy to report that surprise was hardly the word for my response. Paralytic shock is closer. For as much as I have always enjoyed the bride-to-be for her zany wit and bawdy humour, she is, how shall I say it?... of the Punk Persuasion and so an unlikely candidate for domestic bliss. She has been known to shave large portions of hair from her head, paint her lips black and string chicken bones through her ear. One ear only.

So the question was: What would I wear to her wedding? Snorkel and fins are definitely out and my parachute was still at the cleaners.

So I left it up to the bride. “Melody, darling,” I said, “What would be appropriate attire fro your wedding ceremony?”

“Just wear something with class,” she yawned.

Something with class? I wore a simple yet elegant designer dress. My only designer dress and hoped that I wouldn’t look too out of place with ordinary red lipstick.

I needn’t have worried. The bride clipped about in black, stiletto heels. She was wrapped in a Marlene Dietrich style long, black gight skirt with tiny buttons running from the back of her calf to mid-thigh. Her veil, as the Mother-of-the-bride later wrote to distant relatives, “… was a fine black net which fell in five points at the back edged with narrow scarlet ribbon, in the front it was attached to a satin headband and fell in one small point in the centre of her forehead with one red drop… the effect was strongly Tudor and looked very attractive.”

Personally I can’t say whether it was Tudor or not be she did look attractive. My only complaint would have been with “Crazy Steve” one of the guests. Crazy wore denims, a peacock blue shirt, and a studded leather wrist band. From his belt buckle swung a pair of vice grips. Now that IS tacky. No one should ever attempt to upstage the bride.