The Wedding
I sit in the pew and wonder why it is, that if churches are the furthest things from hell on this Earth then why are they so bloody hot? And who in their right mind decides on a full bells and whistles church wedding in December in tropical Queensland?
The bride should be here any minute so the rows are all full. The overhead fans spin frantically but impotently above our heads.
“Christ! It must be over 100 degrees in here,” the old bloke in front of me mutters to his wife. “Who the hell would organise a ….”
She digs him in his ribs cutting him off in mid-sentence, no doubt for taking the Lord’s name in vain, right here in his church, under his very gaze. Or maybe, he is just guilty for the thousandth time of stating the bleeding obvious.
The bridal march starts to play and everyone stands. All the women are fanning themselves with the order of service while we blokes wilt in our suits. My boxer shorts are stuck between my bum cheeks and I wonder again why I thought my presence at this occasion was that necessary. The old arguments play in my head.
“So much money spent for what? The amount spent doesn’t make you more married. And don’t a third of weddings end in divorce anyway?”
Standing at the front, the groom and his best man are wearing snappy powder blue suits with white shirts and red ties. Peter, as usual, looks as cool as cucumber; he is a bit too suave for me. But Grant, the best man, with the foundations of his adult beer gut already well under construction is starting to melt. Sweat is darkening the back of his suit collar. For him the proceedings cannot start soon enough.
At last the four bridesmaids walk down the aisle. I believe there must be a special place in heaven, right between the martyrs and the saints, just for bridesmaids. Their dresses seem complicated and uncomfortable but they carry on, walking past with brave smiles and pushed up breasts. Even with all the fittings there is one bridesmaid who seems to be proudly busting out of her dress while another is wearing hers with all the élan of an exhausted hospital orderly.
The ring boy and the flower girl are cute in white linen and at last here comes the bride Gabrielle. She looks serious but beautiful and my step brother Pete, her father, is already tearing up but that could be because his fisherman feet are in leather shoes for the first time in years. I get a wry nod from him as they walk down the aisle.
And so, without any mishap the main players are now at their places. I don’t know if marriage is a celebration of love or a patriarchal construct but thank God we can begin. With a sigh the congregation collapses into their seats and prays for a speedy end.
