Bouquet dodger

i have a confession to make: i dodge bouquets. at weddings, i mean. when the DJ makes the call for all the single ladies to gather ’round, i stay silently seated at my table as if i didn’t hear a word until someone spots me and drags me to the reception dance floor. most of the women are giggling and hoping and crossing their fingers, but i am frowning and muttering and dragging my feet. while they are calculating where the bouquet is most likely to fall, i am projecting where it is least likely to land so i can avoid that spot at all costs.

at the last wedding, the bouquet came right flying right toward me. i pushed trixie forward to catch it — she’s planning a wedding for the summer anyway, i figured — but she pushed back. luckily, an eager 19-year-old girl dove straight for it. she beamed, waving it in the air.

“you could have caught that,” trixie said to me.

“i know. i didn’t want to.”

“they saw you dodge it.”

it’s not marriage that i’m afraid of, i would later try to explain to them. it’s just that barbaric ritual that follows the garter toss. i don’t want some wanker feeling up my leg.

now carrie’s wedding is in two weeks, and all the single girls who once stood by me have gotten married, and i fear i am going to be left on that dance floor alone.

and i know what’s going to happen. the bouquet will land straight into my arms and some kid named herbert with bad breath and sweaty palms will catch the garter and we will have to pose for a photo with his arm around my waist. later on, they will ask me if i am dating anyone, and i will say no, and they will try to set me up with somebody’s nephew who is just so smart and such a handsome young man and i will want to disappear right then, leaving my periwinkle dress and silver strappy shoes in a puddle on the parquet.

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