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| The Lovely Couple--photo by Kelsey LaPoint |
I was the Matron of Honor. We actually referred to me as Madame since who the hell
wants to ever be called “matron”. I mean really. This is the first time in my
life I had been asked to be/do this for someone. I will say now that it is one of
the most fulfilling, amazing and exhausting things I have ever done in my life.
I also realized that outside of my own wedding last year, when Rebecca served
as my MOH, I didn’t really know what the job entailed. I’ve never asked anyone
else I knew who had done it what to do. I never thought to. Since our wedding was
fairly unconventional, I just assumed that what Rebecca did was unconventional. She was
basically my personal assistant. We didn’t have to do that much running around
because the wedding was in Creede—a town of 400 people. Every event was in the
same general area so wrangling people wasn’t difficult. But the main thing was that I felt like everything
was taken care of and so I didn’t worry. Little did I know how much effort it
actually takes in making your bride feel secure.
In hippy dippy terms, you are essentially absorbing all the
worry and stress for everyone, especially your bride. If she starts to get
stressed—which knowing my dearest Rebecca, was bound to happen because she’s a
pleaser, sometimes to the detriment of her own happiness—you must find a way
to alleviate this in the best way possible. You can’t be part of the problem.
You must disarm the stress immediately. And to do this successfully you must KNOW your
bride. You must anticipate any conclusion she might come to, understand why and
how this will cause her anxiety and eat it like a big juicy sandwich before she
even smells it. That is the ideal outcome. Sometimes you will have to do damage
control. You have to mediate between family members, be the voice of reason and
make sure everyone is comfortable. Phew! Tired yet? Now. What does one do with
all this borrowed, stolen and reconstituted anxiety you ask? Well if you are
Kate Berry Mann, normally you take a run.
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| I can has anxiety sammich? |
For those of you who don’t run either because you tried it
and hated it or because you just can’t imagine ever running unless you are being chased, I
can only describe it as this: CRACK. Okay, I’ve never tried crack, but I assume
it’s like a lot of drugs. There is something about a rhythmic moving of one’s
body--sweating, heart beating, feeling your feet hit the ground--that puts it
right up there for me with eating and doin’ it. I get all my worry out. It’s
like Andy DuFresne in Shawshank Redemption emptying his pockets of the debris
from his escape hole. (And if you don’t know what I’m talking about watch that
damn movie and learn something.) I think about shit. I work stuff out. I
sometimes listen to music. I create a soundtrack to my run. I sometimes run in
silence especially if something is particularly bugging me. I FUCKING LOVE IT,
PEOPLE!!!
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| See how I love it?! (Well, see this person who is expressing my feelings for me) |
Ahem. Excuse me.
Except that I can’t run. I have reached the point in my
current non-running life where I am antsy as f***. Especially since my hip is feeling
pretty normal except for a few bits of muscle weirdness that shows itself now
and then. This is the part when the docs tell you not to overdo it, or jump
back in too soon and re-injure yourself. I understand this in theory, but when
you’ve been your best friend’s right hand lady for a week, eating at restaurants for most meals, snacking on chocolate (cause we’re those kinda ladies) and out of your regular PT routine for almost
two week and feel like a big bag of mushy bones and flesh, you reeeeeally want to
get out and do something. Like run. Please? Doc? No? Fuck YOU!!!
But back to the wedding! After almost a week of being
Rebecca’s personal assistant, confidant and eater of anxiety sandwiches, Sunday
was upon us. After a stressful rehearsal dinner (behind the scenes
stressful—from what I understand everyone in attendance had a lovely time), the
bride was a bit shaken. Remember she IS a pleaser. And to quote my step-father, Gerry, she wants everyone to be happy all of the time. So Sunday morning, all I could
hope for was for the enjoyment of the wedding day to overcome the worry and anxiety that everything will
happen in its correct order.
It did. Rebecca's parents Roxana and Edward are some of the loveliest, most generous people I know. The wedding was on an amazing location in
North Carolina called the Angus Barn. Despite the honkytonk name, the “barn”
was elegant and classy. The team there was highly organized and the hitching went off
without a hitch. (Has that joke been used before? I hope so). It was a splendid
day—sunny and 70. Everyone got to the site on time and looked beautiful. Rebecca
was stunning and Patrick fell in love with her all over again. Another bonus
was that the planets aligned for my MOH speech and it was neither too rambling nor too drunken.
Like a rare piece of theatre it had its time and disappeared into the
ether. I remember little about it except that it involved a spoon and this
little tidbit: I spoke of observing Patrick see Rebecca come down the walkway, with both her parents at her
side, from the barn to the wedding site a few hundred feet away. It was one of the
loveliest things I have ever seen. And it was lovely because what he saw was
what all of us there to honor them see when we look at her.
Crying yet? You should be because it was fucking beautiful.
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| This is my favorite. (photo by Kelsey LaPoint) |
So that, gentle five readers, is what all the mental and
physical exhaustion is for. I would eat an anxiety sandwich everyday if that is
the kind of beauty it produces. And isn’t that why so many of us are artists?
For that stuff of dreams that is rare and fleeting.
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| My Darling Rebecca--photo by Kelsey LaPoint |
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