Unwedding
The minute I walked into the legion hall auditorium in my east-end Toronto neighbourhood — complete with mirror ball, cheap bar, Union Jack and pictures of the Queen — I knew it was the perfect venue for my faux nuptial bash, exactly the sort of place in which I would have held a wedding dance had I married at 20 in my hometown. But to reflect the middle-aged me, ensconced in my house in the city’s Little India district, I eschewed the white gown and purchased a sparkly South Asian lengha in black, red and silver, with a matching bridal bouquet.
On the big day, the bustle and fuss at my house, where some of my closest friends stayed over, felt as wedding-day-like as I’d imagined it would. One of them went with me to the hair salon, and I treated myself to a manicure, pedicure and eyebrow threading, and bought a jazzy, new red bra.
That night, about a hundred people watched me cut a groomless wedding cake and glide over the dance floor with my father to a waltz by Toronto singer-songwriter Kathryn Rose called “I Married Myself.” (“I married myself/It was the best thing I ever did/’cause nobody else was gonna come through/We walked down the aisle/Nobody gave me away/’cause I’m here to stay/…a little more in love every day” — a handy sentiment, given that I was the only one who was going to see the red bra unless I dried it on my clothesline.)
All the trappings of a wedding
A few of my female pals got kitted out in old bridesmaid’s dresses, and, with my 10-year-old niece playing flower girl, I tossed my bouquet from the stage. I had feared that everyone would run for the corners, but I needn’t have worried. My second cousin nearly broke an ankle skidding across the floor to grab it, declaring that she wanted to be the next unmarried 50-year-old (her turn came a few months later).
The first segment of the evening was a concert: I sang a solo about women who are seen as too smart for their own good; various friends and relatives played piano and guitar, and performed such songs as “Non, je ne regrette rien”; and a troupe of belly dancers shimmied to a number called “You Know He Never Loved You,” tossing away white veils and wedding bouquets with mock vengeance. After a long-time friend offered the toast to the unbride, we danced our asses off to tunes I got to pick all by myself. I got a great kick out of watching some teens muddle through their first clammy-handed slow dances. Quite a few guests told me later that it was more fun than any real wedding they’d attended.
