I LOVE this!

To ALL my married friends out there - PHOEY on you! I despise this part of every wedding and REFUSE to make it a part of my own! Read on - singletons, be amused! :)

Toss This
by Camerin Courtney
August 8, 2005

I make a furtive glance at the tuxedoed man at the front of the ballroom, then catch a quick look at my watch before taking my seat, hoping no one notices my actions. The room is bustling with formally dressed guests sipping champagne and dancing to a Frank Sinatra tune. The happy couple in the middle of the dance floor is diverting most of the attention.

I ease my perfectly manicured hands around my mug of coffee and take a few demure sips, exchanging polite smiles with my tablemates between drinks. Another clandestine glance at my watch. Another look at the tuxedoed man.

In one fluid motion I rise, sneak my sequined clutch under my arm, and weave my way through the crowd—careful to avoid any familiar faces. Finally at the side door, I breathe a quick sigh of relief then slip out of the room undetected.

Head down to avoid eye contact, I slink down the hall in search of the nearest stairway. Before ascending to safety, I pause a moment to make sure I've timed my mission correctly.

And then I hear it. The tuxedoed man takes the microphone again and drawls, "Can we get all the single ladies to gather up front, please?" pronouncing "single ladies" with a lilt in his voice one usually reserves for phrases such as, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," or "How you doin'?"

Perfect. I wince at the thought of my single sisters who didn't make it out in time, then climb the stairs to look for sanctuary in the next floor's women's restroom.

Sweet freedom.

***
This, of course, is how I wish things would go before the bouquet toss at the many weddings I attend. Instead, it's usually me trying to sneak my retreat, when Nosy Aunt Marge catches me at the door and asks when it's going to be my turn to get hitched, cornering me in painful conversation until the DJ announces the hour of my doom. Or me not timing my exit properly and all my married friends calling out my name with sadistic glee when they invite the single women to this ritual of humiliation.

And here's what that ritual usually looks like: two grade-school relatives of the bride in their cute dress-up clothes, a well-preserved aunt of unknown age who's on the hunt for hubby number four, and three teeny-tiny 19-year-olds who are in attendance with their hot boyfriends all clamoring at the front of the crowd for the best position before the bride gives the bouquet the heave-ho. Behind this wall of eagerness stand 14 single women who have been shoved there by their friends and relatives. They're looking at the ceiling, the floor, and each other with the fascination of a student who doesn't want to be called on by the teacher.

If one of the 19-year-olds is a sister of the bride, the flowers will be tossed directly to her. If one of the front pack misses the catch or if the bride has a surprisingly good arm, the bouquet lands somewhere on the floor in the now-parted sea of red-faced, horrified singletons. And then it gets "assigned" to the one to whom it landed closest. I believe this was the inspiration for Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery." Actually, at times the stoning at the end of that short story almost seems preferable to this.

There are many implications to one's demeanor during the bouquet toss. If you're a single woman who's shown up stag or with other female friends, you can't look too put off by the tradition lest you appear an anti-marriage raging feminist or one of those single women who've bitterly given up hope and taken up the macramé arts. Or gay. If you move to the front of the pack and try to tackle other wedding guests in your quest to nab the floral prize, you seem desperate (for good reason).

If you've brought a date, you can't look too eager to catch the bouquet, and it's best you don't even look at your guy for a good seven minutes afterward lest he think you're already picturing him in a tuxedo for your own nuptials, never mind that you likely already have.

Due to this delicacy of response, I usually opt for subtle retreat from the room at the first hint of bouquet or garter. It's just safer—not to mention more dignified—that way.

I'm not sure what the brides of the world have against us poor single gals. They've already sent us into a panic with the gold embossed bone-colored envelope beckoning us—and the dreaded "and guest." They've already got our gift—usually a top-of-the-line kitchen appliance or set of plush bath towels that make our self-bought Target specials seem, well, not-so-special.

Apparently this isn't enough. Apparently they must also torment us by drawing attention to the fact that we Aren't Married Yet. Humiliation by floral assault.

So that's how I find myself on occasion standing in a hotel ballroom with rapt attention on the faux-wood flooring, dodging the flying flowers, and wishing for the mad skills of Sydney Bristow or Wonder Woman and her coolio invisible jet.

All the while, I'm secretly grateful for a Savior who knows what it's like to be pestered by relatives at a wedding. I secretly suspect Jesus finally relented and turned the water to wine as a diversionary tactic for the upcoming garter toss. Now that is a wise, all-knowing God.

Blessings!
Camerin Courtney