So, the planning is behind you, the countless decisions on what to have, what to omit, how to stretch that dollar until it screams. Today, it’s all coming together, and it’s perfect. The chairs are set up in the garden, the sun is shining in a luminous blue sky with a picturesque scattering of puffy white clouds. Your hair turned out better than you could have hoped. Your father’s eyes teared up briefly when he first saw you, and now you stand with your arm in his, listening for the first notes of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus. You take in the view before you–rows of people you love; the romance of the lush, blooming garden, the array of your dearest friends–bridesmaids and groomsmen–all in place, looking exactly as you had envisioned. And of course, The One, smiling encouragement and waiting for you–his bride. The adorable flower girl takes her place with the bridesmaids. Your mother stands in her front-row seat to alert the guests, who rise in honor of your appearance. The music changes, and you and your father step out and begin the magic moment of your processional.
And then it hits you. Really. Smack in the eye. A huge fat raindrop. Your eye squints as your makeup begins to sting; two or three black tears streak down your face. Brush them away–don’t let them fall onto your dress! Everyone will just think you’re sentimental. The second raindrop hits the zit that you worked for 10 minutes to cover, as though it were precision-aimed by an elite-corps marksman. The zit throbs resentfully. The raindrops become a patter, then a high-powered shower. One or two older ladies subtly make their way back toward shelter for the sake of their heavily-sprayed coiffures. The bridesmaids’ dresses are darkly polka-dotted with rain, but they’re holding fast. One of them is still smiling rigidly. The men attempt to be stoic, as more women head for cover–and you hasten your steps to the small covered archway where the Officiant awaits. The Officiant asks, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” and as your father responds “. . . her mother and I,” your mother picks up the cold, wailing flowergirl and sprints back down the center aisle, the 5-year-old’s dangling mary-janes smudging only a small amount of mud across Mom’s thighs.
As your vows are hastily exchanged, the cloudburst begins to pass, and a ray of sunshine streams down, illuminating your zit as you are introduced as husband and wife. Your updo flattened by the rain, the tiara holding your veil begins to slip backwards as you speedwalk down the aisle, followed by your wedding party, who have to fight their way back amid the guests, who are beating the same hasty retreat.
Inside the reception hall, everyone is clustered around the groom’s Great Aunt Mildred, who slipped on the wet garden bricks.
The bridesmaids hustle you into the back room and spring into action. Yanking off your veil, two begin brushing and fluffing your hair, while the other carefully removes the makeup from your ever-spreading eye. Why is there no freaking hair dryer? Oh, of course–because everyone got their hair done in advance. Calming yourself, you take up a hand mirror to re-do the eye and subdue the stubborn blemish as the bridesmaids pin your hair into a basic French Roll. You decide not to bustle your train until the mud on the underside has dried. Back in place, the tiara and veil distract from the damage.
You rejoin your groom to find that since no receiving line had formed immediately after the ceremony, the guests have moved straight on to the buffet table, which looks as lovely and bountiful as you had planned. In the kitchen, your godmother lovingly adds a dash more red wine to the Beef Bourguignon she’s heating to refill one of your chafing dishes. The wine splashes into the gas-flame burner, flaring up and causing her to drop the bottle. Within minutes the flames are licking the edges of the nearby cabinets. Fortunately, there is a fire extinguisher on hand, so the damage is contained.
Outside, your dining tables stand, ready for an evening “under the stars"–table linens soaked, one or two centerpiece candles sputtering gamely, the rest too wet to be lit. Each chair holds just the tiniest puddle of rainwater–but your mother and aunt are making progress with rolls of paper towels, dragging along a black plastic garbage bag. You note that when Mom is bent over drying off the chair seats, you can’t see the mud on the front of her dress.
Your father and new husband, the groomsmen and all close male family members have wisely decided this would not be a good time to intervene, and are at the bar.
The first wave of people make their excuses and leave the awkward atmosphere as soon as they can put their buffet plates down. The remainder are convinced to be seated for the toasts. You move on to cutting your cake just as the paramedics arrive to remove Great Aunt Mildred, who, it appears, has broken her hip. Although she is valiantly protesting that she’ll be fine, a good portion of the groom’s family trails off behind the ambulance.
The bridesmaids bustle your gown, which has mostly dried. So great is your determination to Make The Best Of It, that you commence your First Dance scarcely noticing the light dusting of sand that the swirling folds of your gown are sprinkling across the dance floor. It does get your attention when you go down with an audible snap: the high heels calculated to make your legs looks great in your garter shot, do not mix well with movement on a polished floor powdered with sand.
Within half an hour, you and your broken ankle–that’s Mrs. Ankle to you–are checking into the “bridal suite” at the local emergency room, separated from Great Aunt Mildred only by a billowing curtain with sailboats on it. Oh, the romance. And you won’t find out until tomorrow, shortly after you, your husband and your crutch miss the plane to your honeymoon destination, that Uncle Bud got hammered and drove into a high-end antique shop on his way home, turning their inventory into kindling. There will be a lawsuit, but you won’t have to worry about that until later.
Nothing can predict the unforeseen. If you’re lucky, the photographer got some good shots BEFORE the ceremony. You can cling to them for years afterward, telling yourself it really wasn’t so bad. Obviously you can’t re-stage the evening and live it over again. So if you can’t predict it and you can’t prevent it, what CAN you do? What could you have done differently?
Well, most obviously, regardless of your climate, you should never plan an outdoor wedding without a viable, easily-implementable Plan B for inclement weather. But more basically, from a financial and legal point of view, regardless of your available budget, protect yourself from event-related disasters with Event Insurance. More and more venues are requiring liability insurance upwards of $1,000,000 (yes, you read that right); these policies, for $200-$350 for an average wedding, can provide that coverage, protect you from any liability from guests who get into trouble as a result of too much champagne, pay medical bills, AND EVEN reimburse you for your whole wedding expenses if your wedding is ruined or called off due to weather or illness. You might say, “but I’m on a budget”–that premium could pay for my wedding cake. Well, so could your car insurance, but hopefully you’re not foolhardy enough to be driving around without THAT. If you can’t predict it and you can’t prevent it, at least you can protect yourself from the repercussions of it. This is a day of once-in-a-lifetime importance, and compared to the overall cost of the event, it’s NOT such a big expense after all. To inquire into Event Insurance, I’m acquainted with WedSafe.com–but if you Google “Event Insurance” you will find others with which to comparison shop. Don’t be penny-wise and pound-foolish. The day is too important.
01.03.09
