At traditional weddings, the bride throws out the bouquet to a group of single women during the reception, and it is said that the woman who catches the bouquet is destined to be the next bride to walk down the aisle.
Each and every one of the other women wants the bouquet, but admits to defeat to the one who with the longest arms, or best reach. In the end, they feign happiness to the bitch that caught it with the whorish clothes and make-up, bad dye job, halitosis and a snaggle-tooth.
What women don’t realize is those pretty flowers aren’t about the promise of marriage, but the promise of possibilities and opportunities.
Being a man, I have never been in the bouquet toss, but I know what it feels like to have the promise of something coming towards me, while some unworthy opponent seizes it from my hands like the fucking jaws of life.
It is bothersome watching people who don’t do anything special to deserve much, have these things thrust at them. And, since they’re nonchalant about it all (they have to be since they already have it all), they just sigh and brush it off as if it happens everyday… which it does.
Coming in second sucks and sucks the life out of you.
You never get to wear the pretty white dress and tiara. There is no special treatment for you on the special day. And, no one tells you how beautiful you look even though they’re pretending not to notice you’re five months pregnant.
Instead you get to wear the fugly dress with all the pink ruffles and layers of tulle that make you look like two dozen ballerinas exploded all over you at a cake shop. And it is not true when they say that fugly is the new pretty. And you get treated like shit because your skin is blemish free (due to the lack of pregnancy hormone fluctuations), your hair is perfect, and don’t need three seamstresses sewing you into something that is four sizes too small. Not that I want to wear a dress but it’s the closest metaphor that I can think of.
I am always a bridesmaid and never a bride.