I have never been a fan of weddings, mostly because I’ve always been single at weddings. Watching two teary-eyed people pledge their love while I’m still looking for consistent love brings tears to my eyes. As they whisper, “I do,” I mope and hold back screams of “When is if my turn?!”
Then there is the wedding bouquet toss.
Like a bat hiding from the light, I hide in the back of the line, perfectly blocked by big hair and the waving arms of single women who want to be singled out as the “next one to get hitched.” Yes, I want to get married, but I rather not look desperate among married folk. I can feel the pity in their eyes as I sit at an empty table, chair dancing by my lonesome.
“You’re not married?” Their wide eyes question in shock.
“No!” My eyes glare in return.
“Do you at least have a boyfriend? You are 33.” Snarky eyes now, with an eye roll. My eyes blink rapidly, unsure of how to respond. I am 33 and single and my ovaries are ticking.
But back to the wedding bouquet toss, which I just so happen to participate in this past weekend in Puerto Rico.
I was at my friend Franco’s wedding when the dreaded announcement was made…via Beyonce.
“All the single ladies…” sang the lead musician of the band. I surveyed the room. Less than a dozen women inched their way toward the dance floor. Great, I thought. No where to hide! We clustered in the middle behind the bride who teased us with the bouquet. One fake toss. Another fake toss. A third toss and there it went! In the air, like a bluebird in flight, was the stem of an orchid.
It landed right on the table behind us.
“Do it again!” yelled a light-skinned woman in black. Her flowing, pleaded dress swirled around her as she jumped up and down, excited to be the one. I stood beside her, hand on my hip, ready to get this charade over with. The bride turned around, her long, deep purple sash facing us. She held her bouquet once again and began the tease.
One fake toss. Another fake toss. A third toss and there it went!
I watched as the color of royalty approached me in a blur. I lifted my arm, willingly, and felt the soft yet bright petals graze my palm. I made a fist, wrapping my slender and long fingers around the possibility that I would be the “next one to get hitched.” If the superstition was more than an old wives tale, I was indeed the one . I held the answer in my hands.
All of a sudden, the bride turned around and hugged me. Bridesmaids and guests, both single and married, congratulated me as if a man had just gone down on one knee.
“If you touch me, you marry me!” I joked, though deep inside I do hope catching the bouquet was a sign. That it will soon be my time to whisper “I do” as I stare into the eyes of my husband-to-be with teary eyes.
The stem now sits inside a small vase. It stands tall, drying out as often done with roses, atop a shelf in my bedroom.
I’ve never been a fan of weddings, but this one was special. I am ready for the magic to begin.