....Or, what I learned from falling on my face in front of 250 people.

I’m of the school of thought that being in someone’s wedding party is an agreement that involves your complete subservience through the planning and execution of the wedding. They want you to buy a teal, turtleneck-maxi dress that costs $500? Done. They want you to shave an eyebrow to help disguise the groom’s partial alopecia? Fine. They want you to write an original poem with themes of love, desire and dolphins to read at the groom’s dinner? Consider it done.
 
So it goes without saying that I’m theologically opposed to making a scene out of the grand march. You know, the part where they announce the names of the bridesmaids and groomsman as they enter the reception, warming up the crowd for the arrival of the real stars of the show: the bride and groom.
 
When my groomsman texted me before this weekend’s wedding to say he wanted to “coordinate a little shimmy” I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly dislocated them. No, I explained on the rental trolley to the reception, there will be no shimmy. We will politely wave and take our seats like the class acts that we are. This is not our wedding, this is their wedding. We are witnesses in matching outfits who are here to bask in the glow of their spotlight, not to take it for ourselves.
 
But then the grand march started. And the ushers whisked away the flower girls in elaborate dances to much applause. Did you read this? Much Applause. I didn’t even know that I craved the sound of two human hands slapping together in rapid succession until I heard it then and there. And by that time, I needed it and I needed it bad. So I said fine, groomsman. Pick me up. Give me a twirl. Let’s give these people a show.

And that’s what we did. The kind of show where a grown woman in Spanx gets dropped on the dancefloor in front of 250 hungry and slightly drunk people, to a collective gasp. The kind of show where she recovers with the grace and dignity of a confused ostrich. The kind of show where he ends up gathering her limbs up and carrying her off the dance floor anyway. The kind of show where she wonders if she could have dropped some more lbs. before this wedding.
 
In another lifetime—for example, when my backpack broke open in front of the entire baseball team my freshman year of high school—something like this would have caused me such mortification I would need to hide in a bathroom stall until the reception ended. This time I laughed it off and nodded when my friend’s fiancée mouthed to me “blog about it.” I was slightly embarrassed but mostly entertained by the fact that I had gotten exactly what I deserved: a bruised ego, a sore knee and an online article exposing my narcissism and bad coordination to a larger audience.
 
Next time I will smile and wave, as planned.
 
There’s no way I’m alone here, right? What’s your most embarrassing wedding moment?

by Nora McInerny