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medium pimping: La manana de la boda

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›bio: raquel

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'le vie c'est tres droll'

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Two of my friends were married this past weekend in beautiful Fort Tryon Park.

I was bridesmaid #6.

Opting for a low on the totem pole number was a personal choice. In the regiment of the bridesmaids, it is wise to shoot for a low numbered position. This way, not much is expected of you and so when you actually accomplish one of your "bridesmaidly duties" (i.e. planning strip club visits, getting the other bridesfolk inebriated, etc.) you rise swiftly through the ranks while simultaneously looking like a million dollars. Whether it cost you that much or not.

Speaking of costing that much: the dress is a keeper. In fact, as long as I go to the gym a little more often it should come in useful over the holidays and the other 12 weddings and proms I am attending in the next few months.

The wedding party was convening at the Hilton. I was 20 minutes late due to an ill-fated shoe store incident in which new shoes were not acquired, despite an aggressive attempt. I showed up glowering in my old ugly shoes. The gay bridesman immediately said, "wow those shoes are so...... masculine". Full of the kind of sarcastic intent that only a gay man or a mother can pull off and make it hurt so good.

I borrowed "more feminine and gay approved" shoes from Bridesmaid #1. She won so many points with this move, she almost became the Bride at that point. I had given up rising through the ranks at this point in our competitive bridesmaid schema. After all, bridesmaids #2 and #3 were the brides identical 16-year-old twin sisters and they were tall and gorgeous. But #4 was the gay bridesman, and I could kick his ass for the shoe comment and get away with it.

I was quickly distracted from ass kicking when I was called into action. You see, I was essentially the flower girl. First in line down the long 3.5 minute processional that essentially went down a hillside on a paved road, curled around and went back up the rocky hillside covered by a thin white satin sheet which hid the bumpy terrain. All in the one size too big shoes of Bridesmaid #1.

So Ian, the "country club gay" wedding planner, gives me the go to start the long slow sparse conga line down to where the reverend Earl and the Groom were waiting. I was working a Luigi drag, for those of you who are versed in the intricacies of jazz dance. So you can imagine it was pretty slow and damn graceful in a slightly cheesy way. No jazz hands though, we were instructed to hold our flower bouquets below our belly buttons and angled out. You can picture in your minds eye what that looked like: Thorny rose dicks.

Four years later I was still walking around this hillside. Onlookers were yelling down to the line: You look good, girl! Keep going! Go team! I go behind a bush where I am shielded from the wedding attendees - so promptly turn around and do my best silent medium pimping punk rawk jump into the air for the benefit of the rest of the procession - still in full view of the attendees.

They lose it, and start to guffaw.

I am obviously funnier then I give myself credit for.

I turn around smug and self satisfied and find myself staring at a squirrel that won't budge. Squirrels kind of freak me out, just because they are skittish and move quickly and that is just the sort of behavior I have always associated with rabid animals.

A couple psych-outs and the squirrel goes to spread rabies among the rest of the wedding party. I take another turn and there are more onlookers, this time kids with skateboards and Colt 45's. Classy. They see me working my luigi step drag move as I am back in the sightline of the wedding guests. Step right drag left..... step left drag right.... All at the pace of your grandma climbing mount everest.

Hey, is this a wedding or a funeral? They yell.

Fuck you! I yell back.

With my inside voice, of course. Inside my head that is.

But I don't care, because finally the end is in sight! I get to the long aisle of white satin and my date catches my eye. (In the immortal words of Nenah Cherry: Who's lookin' good today? Damn!) Then I start out on the cloth. This can't be good. This is a clumpy ass hill I am walking on and I can't even see where I am stepping because of the cloth. I am going down for sure, I think. I see the Reverend Dr. Earl Kooperkamp as my heel catches and I know this is the end for me. I am about to ruin the wedding and I am already Bridesmaid #6. I can't be demoted any further. This is not a good thing.

A great miracle happened there: I regained my balance and did not fall. In fact, nothing out of place happened for the rest of the ceremony. The bride and groom are a beautiful couple - delightful and funny throughout, the vows are sweet and traditional, the a capella blessing did not train wreck, no one says that the bride and groom can't be married because they are actually brother and sister, Bridesmaid #5 sniffles next to me but manages to hold it together and not start sobbing. The only thing unusual is that there is no glass broken, so I'm not convinced it was legally binding.

Nonetheless, we all go up to the party and eat and drink and dance our hearts out. Finally, sweaty and tipsy, Bridesman #4 swings me wildly during a particularly boisterous move to "Oh, What a Night". Down I go - flat on my back with Bridesmaid #1's shoes up in the air. At last. The fall I had been waiting for. And one more solid reason to kick some Bridesman ass.

I'm still convinced that I am cool though. And no, I didn't catch the bouquet.

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