When one of my childhood friends asked me several months ago if I would stand up at his wedding, I jumped at the chance. He probably now wishes that I had stayed seated. Unfortunately this past weekend the laws of wedding blunder percentages finally caught up to my rental tuxedo self.
Thankfully I didn't set anything on fire or endure a blow to the nether regions by an ill-timed Wiffle ball bat, so at least I won't end up in America's Funniest Home Videos rerun purgatory.
After standing up in a half dozen weddings, I pretty much have the groomsmen drill down: right hand over left, don't lock your knees, stand an arms length apart, no facial tattoos the night before the wedding, etc. In all those years, I'd never had the distinct pleasure of aisle runner duty — a trained monkey task that no sane man should ever volunteer for. However, true friendship sometimes means taking the proverbial bullet or simply raising your hand.
Little did I know that 40 yards of white fabric could bring a grown man to his knees — or at least an uncomfortable squatting position.
Now as inauspicious wedding moments go, what happened last Saturday ranks somewhere between giving the groom a Mr. Jim Beam pep talk to calm his nerves and wearing white tube socks with your adjustable waistband tux pants. In other words, far from Jerry Springer fodder but slightly worse than a fashion faux pas.
While I escorted the mother of the bride down the aisle without incident, the same could not be said of the aisle runner. In fact what could be said of the aisle runner are words not uttered in church or published in newspapers, unless you count $&%*#^@! Beetle Bailey.
As wedding traditions go, the story behind the aisle runner is that it symbolizes God's holiness and walking on holy ground. In my experience with the aisle runner, I prayed for a hole in the ground to swallow me whole.
It all seemed simple enough: walk down the aisle, grab thin rope, pull, put one foot in front of the other and the runner would take care of itself. The two church ladies charged with coordinating the wedding minutia to the exact minute, gave myself and the other groomsman this advice — to keep the runner straight, don't look back.
After making our way to the front of the church, Marty and I reached for the runner and took two steps back down the aisle. The delicate lace pattern stopped us in our tracks like an NFL linebacker. Naturally we broke aisle runner protocol and looked back.
Within the next ten seconds we managed to dislodge the aisle runner from the 1,632 pins holding it down to the carpeted alter step. In vain we tried to push two pins back in and gave a gentle pull that resulted in the expected failure. Looking up at Marty's face, I'm suddenly thankful that my back is to the church audience. Unfortunately, the lower portion of this side of me will be prominently displayed over the next five minutes.
Not yet resigned to utter panic, Marty informs me that he is going to stand on the thing — that way we can break the other aisle runner rule — while I pull solo. At first I feel relief when the braided material starts to unwind. However, the sudden loss of tension leaves me with a sick feeling in my stomach and a broken runner rope in my hands.
Marty has that look on his face again. Meanwhile, I feel like an actor who is clueless of his next line as he improvises Hamlet. Soft-shoeing an iambic pentameter soliloquy ain't pretty.
Speaking of not pretty, I quickly come to the realization that my choices at this moment are to run out of the church crying, swearing, pointing at Marty — probably all at the same time — or unroll the runner by hand. Admittedly, I gave the first choice more than a second thought.
For the next three minutes, 180 seconds of which felt like an eternity, I unfurl the aisle runner in the most unsightly manner, a backwards gym class bear crawl with a lame Chuck Berry duck walk. The wedding photographer told me I might make her portfolio shots of fame.
After reaching the end of the roll — which stopped halfway into the pastor's office — one of the church ladies approached me and said "that's not one of our runners." Evidently she was trying to get out in front of any potential pain and anguish lawsuit filed by the bride and groom.
Hopefully the happy couple remains blissfully unaware of the aisle runner debacle as they soak up the sights and red wine stains while honeymooning in Naples, Italy. However, I'm sure that when they get back to the states and watch the video tape from their big day, they'll be at a loss for words.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com