I have been part of a bridal party six times. Let me begin with a few stats:
- I have been a bridesmaid four times and a maid of honour twice
- Five of the weddings were in Montreal, the last was in Toronto (where I had the misfortune of being coiffed by a hairdresser from Woodbridge – for those of you who don’t know, that’s the Saint-Leonard of the Queen’s City – who wanted to tease my hair to pre-1989 standards, insisting all the while that people don’t know how to cut hair in Montreal).
- Bride breakdown: 3 Italians, 1 blond girl of vague Canadian origins, and 2 Portuguese-Italians.
- I have worn mint green linen, cream and pink raw silk, gold satin with a bow on the back, lilac taffeta, cranberry taffeta, and royal blue sequins - which went very nicely with the matching head piece featuring sequined flowers, a v-shaped headband, and strings of sparkling beads that lashed me across the face when I turned my head too quickly.*
- Number of times I have had to dance the Macarena is excruciatingly uncomfortable high-heel shoes dyed to match my dress: 6
The highlight of the bridal party experience is undoubtedly the bachelorette party. The bride’s last hurrah, when she is supposed to throw caution to the wind and sow that last wild oat. Some bachelorette parties have been tamer than others, with the evening’s excitement culminating in all of us dancing in a circle around a pile of purses. Others – to be precise, three – have been more daring with a visit to that temple of masculinity (ahem), Club 281.
Once we had survived the shame of being ridiculed by all the punks heading to Foufounes Electrique, once we were past the indignity of having to exorbitantly bribe the leering doorman to get us a table, we found ourselves sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, with countless other women also sipping over-priced drinks and wondering out loud if we were going to see *everything*.
On each occasion, I laughed so continuously, so steadily, that I feared I might get thrown out of the joint before I had a chance to finish my bajillion-dollar gin and tonic. Let me tell you the top three things I witnessed on those choice outings.
One: Those girls in the audience "fortunate" enough to have friends buy them a lap dance were sure to get the performance of their lives. With so many ladies packed so tightly in, the dancer had very little space to work in and all gyrating and grinding was done directly in the girl’s face. Unfortunately, this also meant that when a dancer was performing at the next table, you had to sit very still for fear of accidentally leaning back and finding yourself wearing some stripper’s butt as a hat.
Two: Once, a dancer stepped through the curtains – freakishly unhairy, like the rest, and not-so-heroin-chic thin – wearing a banana-yellow sheath over his bits. When he came out on stage and starting shaking his *fruit* at the audience, I was both amused that such a crude sexual allusion could still work and really, truly horrified at the frenzied females around me who apparently wanted nothing more than to peel his sweet, sweet package. I have fantasies, but I am fairly certain that the last thing I want to see coming towards me is a penis dressed up as a banana.
Third, and last: One tableau began with two men applying suntan lotion to their respective – once again hairless – limbs and then doing a gyrating boogie with each other. Now I understand that many male fantasies revolve around watching two women have sex, and understandably, it can be a very intense, erotic scene to watch unfold. Except I have to say that watching two men get “oiled up” – both physically and metaphysically – is not my idea of a fantasy. Even if, one day, I manage to convince two uber-hotties to come into my bedroom and ravage my trembling self, I don’t think I would be all that happy if they were too into each other. That would just take away from the whole… me… aspect of the fantasy. In the end, I was just glad that they didn’t soak themselves under a Flashdance-style shower head and then lick each other dry.
The last time we went to a strip joint – for the fifth bride – I was so jaded about the whole affair, the other women in line were practically paying me to get them a table. But I did it anyway, because you don’t let your friends down. Even when they make you wear a royal blue headpiece with sequined flowers.
Just a few last stats for you:
- Number of separations: 2 out of 6 (getting close to the national average)
- Number of babies: 9.5 (she's due this summer)
- Next time you can expect to see me in a bridal party: Never. Unless it's my own.
*I would have gone through the trouble of scanning that precious photo, but it's already packed in a box. I promise to post it soon.
Fall 1998. Long, gold satin empire-waisted dress with large bow over the bum (really). Matching gold satin wrap. Chopsticks with fake flowers Krazy-glued to the end.
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