Descriptive Essay On My Wedding Day

It 's my wedding day, and I 've overslept. There 's no time for primping, or even showering. I roll on deodorant, throw my gown over my head and run to the church. When I arrive, my dress is speckled with mud. The organist has settled in the choir loft; the guests are nestled in their pews. The photographer must have overslept, too, because my dad is pressing a distant relative with a disposable camera into service. I refuse to accept the gravity of the situation, opting instead to repeat the refrain that has soothed me countless times over these seven months of planning: "Everything will be just fine." I peer down the aisle. Two-hundred guests stare back, rubbernecking as if they were witnesses to a 10-car pileup on the interstate. There is

But that was then. Everything changes when you move from the conditional tense -- "If I were to get married I would not wear a fluffy white dress" to the real-world present tense -- "I am getting married, so let me wear a fluffy white dress." When the ring is on, and you 're surrounded by misty-eyed family members uncorking champagne, a five-piece band and three-tiered cake makes all the sense in the world. You don 't want to keep this happiness restricted to the two of you. The Olympic planning committee must be involved. So you swallow the myth that "This is Your Day," and you embrace the idea of becoming fluent in cakespeak. You assure yourself that you will be wiser than the brides who have aisle-walked before you. But in no time your hope chest is replaced with a hard-reality chest. The all-consuming Bridal Tide sweeps you away to the sea of minutiae. Love and Other Catastrophes Most days, it 's not " Till death do us part" that freaks me out. It 's the little stuff. Should my veil extend to my fingertips, my shoulders or some point in between? What are the advantages of a 6-year-old flower girl carrying a nosegay instead of a

When I slam the dressing room door on her hand, I am sure she realizes it was a mistake. I didn 't know dressing room protocol around these parts calls for a saleswoman to put the gown on you. By dress No. 10, I 'm expert at this drill: Head up, arms down and turn to the mirror. By No. 20, I have mastered the more-is-less rule: The more faux-pearl sprigs and jazz-recital sequins adorning the gown, the cheaper the gown. A simple dress costs more than a mortgage. By the time I choose my dress, I have tried on 30. At the first fitting, as I stare down my bridal reflection in the mirror, the reality of the situation overwhelms me: 200 guests and a 150-foot aisle. The blood drains from my face. I feebly mutter apologies to the seamstress as I falter off the pedestal and crumble to the floor, a life-sized mushroom of satin silk organza. "I hope I didn 't wrinkle the dress. I was about to faint." She sighs. "You brides really have to eat more." I Do, after all It 's lunchtime, and I 'm complaining about wedding plans to one of my brothers-in-law. He and my sister have been married a decade. Since that time I 've rarely heard him wax sentimental. Just as I am about to bemoan the state of veils in the '90s, he does just that. "You know