At twenty years old, I finally attended a wedding – my cousin Jim’s, who was marrying Melody, a woman 20 years his junior (only six years older than me).  My two younger sisters and I were SO excited.  After all, this wasn’t just a wedding, it was a FAMILY wedding, meaning we were sure to be bridesmaids or at least flower girls.  Right?  RIGHT?

Well, no.  While the happy couple’s dog got to walk down the aisle ahead of the bride, we were not invited to take part in the wedding at all.  However, upon arrival (after picking up my youngest sister Annie (12 at the time) from summer camp), clearly someone felt guilty and let us know that we had a very special job – we could go around and get people to sign the guest book.

Future brides and grooms – here’s a tip – getting people to sign the guest book is not a special job, it is an annoying chore.  Can’t you do what people have done for ages and stick the guest book somewhere obvious where people will naturally walk by and sign it?  Little did I know then that this was just the first of many “special jobs” that would be assigned to me at future weddings.

At this wedding, however, my middle sister (Ella) and I were more than happy to let Annie handle the “job.”  While Ella and I wandered the wedding, bored out of our minds, Annie gleefully ran around making SURE every single guest signed the book.  Ella and I shook our heads at Annie’s excitement – didn’t she realize THIS WAS NOT THE POINT OF WEDDINGS?  Our first wedding was meant to be a gorgeous, special affair, like Cinderella at the ball (minus the magic-ending curfew) or Elizabeth Bennet at the Netherfield dance (minus Lizzie’s haughty attitude and Mr. Darcy’s snobbishness).  It was supposed to be perfect.  This?  Was not.

Ella and I sucked it up, however, as good party girls do, and managed to semi-enjoy ourselves through the Electric Slide and even found slow-dance partners around our age.  The reception dragged on but finally, mercifully, ended, and our family – glum and exhausted – headed back to the local hotel.

The next day, we dropped Annie back at camp, and as our huge white minivan drove off, my mother broke news to Ella and me that she’d been saving til the wedding was over.  “Your sister has lice.”

Ella and I looked at each other in shock.  LICE?  Didn’t we outgrow that when we were 8?  Apparently one of the other girls in Annie’s bunk had arrived at camp with it (my mother was sure it was due to the cornrows put in her hair after a recent island vacation, proving that she’d been right to never allow Ella and I to get those cool braids when we’d been in the Bahamas the previous year) and the entire bunk had caught it.

“I didn’t want to tell you before the wedding because I worried it would ruin the fun.”

The fun?  What fun?  As I thought about the ramifications of this news, however, a grin broke over my face.  I started laughing uncontrollably.  My mother, afraid the news of lice had sent me over the edge, nervously asked what was wrong.

Between my guffaws, I choked out “Annie…she talked to every single person at that wedding…getting them to sign the stupid guest book…”  My sister and parents realized what I meant and we all devolved into helpless giggles.

“NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW IT WAS US,” said my mother, no doubt thinking of my cousin and his child bride discovering very itchy scalps on their expensive honeymoon.

Mom, I apologize for outing the family…but it was the only thing that made that terrible wedding worthwhile.