Weddings from a man’s perspective

I am, by every definition of the word, a man. I’m actually a macho fellow. In fact, if you ever met me you’d say ‘You seem hard as nails. You could probably destroy a fellow with one punch’. It’s not my place to say whether or not that is true (it is), but you most certainly would not get me mixed up for a lady.

Being a man means I am little more than an object that must exist at certain points of a wedding in order for the wedding to occur. We have no hand in the organisation of said wedding, nor are we even invited to assist. Sometimes the woman will ask for assistance but this is out of courtesy. I understand that in years to come the woman will use your lack of involvement in the wedding as leverage for something else.

The traditional ceremony itself is an ancient ritual that focuses on the bride. She makes the grand entrance, she has the special room to dress in, and the attedndees are supposed to say ‘Oh wow, doesn’t she look delightful’.

The man’s job is to stand, repeat his lines, and not dribble on his shirt. Despite this female-centred occasion, it’s also strangley chauvinistic. The woman is there to look beautiful, but it is the men who do the talking. God forbid the woman speaks! She may speak of politics and other such matters that she has no business knowing.

Men are not built for these occasions. By default, most men are over-confident. We often say ‘it’ll be fine’ when in reality we have no idea how it will be. Many men put the wedding to the back of their mind and think all will be well. Some of these men will then be struck by panic before the wedding and make haste with the tide, leaving their pretty but silent brides at the altar.

I had no such opportunity, for I was already wed before the ceremony on Friday. Running would have meant that I would miss out on a party I’d helped to pay for but still have a bride the following day.

Since my wife and I were already betrothed, I had few nerves for the ceremony itself. The speech I was not looking forward to, but it was this false confidence that was my undoing.

As my woman walked down the aisle I felt an eerie wobbling of the knees. I thought it a stroke or some form of fit, but alas I was struck with butterflies of the legs. She was a marvel to behold and I could not gaze upon her fully in the eye for fear of collapse.

The nerves were to such a degree that I had no idea what the woman official was saying. I knew I had to repeat her lines, full and true, but my words were nowhere to be seen. I cursed my over-confidence and asked the good woman to repeat the vows.

After the ceremony all went by in a flash. I was pushed and pulled and found myself cutting a terraced-cake. Our favourite melody began and my wife and I led the dance. In my earlier days I waltzed at a local night hall by the name of Sylvesters. It prepared me for the first dance of the evening, and like a swan, and despite my masculinity, I elegantly led my lady across the dance space for one minute and 58 seconds.

As the night progressed I became intoxicated and the rest is almost a mystery.

In truth, as the essay has already touched upon, weddings are for the ladies. Yet, against my expectations I had a wonderful time. I knew the day would be as special as I’d had, but somehow it was more than that. To share in such gayeties with special ones with a bride so beautiful that even a butch rebel such as myself could get an illness of the knees, was, well, more than a delight – it was joyous.

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