Something blue.

Weddings are emotional for me. They're emotional for many as evidenced by the sniffling and weeping that took place during the ceremony I was at over the weekend, but those folks get emotional because they're warm-hearted decent people. People who are different from me.

I get emotional at weddings because I'm a jealous, bitter, resentful bitch. Owning up to being a bitter and resentful bitch is not new, but realizing my jealousy over my friend being so very happy is a totally new achievement in bad behaviour.

It's also frightening, because it means I actually want to get married. I was with somebody for four years and he called me his wife. I felt no joy in the designation. His mother called me her daughter-in-law and that made me happier because I loved his mom, but I hedged when she talked about when we would make it official. The thought of the rest of my life being like the four years previous made me cry.

As I have yet to see a bridal magazine featuring a woman weeping in the fetal position on the cover I assumed my attitude wasn't going to make for a fairy tale wedding. It didn't occur to me until very recently that perhaps I wasn't against marriage in general; just marriage to the wrong person.

I'm actually more pro-wedding than marriage. Above all, I really want to have a wedding. I haven't thought through the actual marriage to follow but I want the party and the surrounding hoopla.

I want all of my friends and family in one room and I want to know we've all come together to celebrate the far-fetched yet joyous occasion of me finding a guy I like, who presumably liked me enough to call me back at some point for a second date. This would be the best I could really hope for, so we'd likely have an annulment the next day but at least I will have had a wedding.

The wedding that took place this weekend was for the daughter of very close family friends. She's younger than I am which of course inspired all kinds of talk about when "my turn" would come. Sadly, this phrase wasn't used in reference to when my table would get to approach the buffet line.

Because this girl is so close to my family, this wedding hurt my heart a little for other reasons. I got to see what my parents would be like at my wedding or my sister's wedding because we think of this girl as one of ours.

My Dad can shake his booty like you wouldn't believe (especially if it's Elvis) and a circle actually formed around him and the mother of the bride on the dance floor. My Mom fussed over the arrangements and decor like the resulting pictures would be hanging in her living room and for all I know they will be - for lack of any other forthcoming wedding photos.

After several hours of eating, drinking and dancing including the humiliating tradition known as the Chicken Dance, it was time for that other exercise in wedding humiliation known as the Bouquet Toss.

About ten lovely young women and assorted spinsters gathered in a tight knot behind the bride, actually jostling one another for position. Naturally I stood three feet taller in my heels than the other girls so I stood in the back of the crowd with my arms folded.

I couldn't be a poor sport and sit out the Toss but I couldn't bring myself to push and shove and get into position like a starter pistol was about to go off either. I went with more of a martyred approach to participation.

The bride faked-out the crowd several times, inspiring anguished cries from the jostling single white females. Just before she tossed it for real, she looked at me over her shoulder and grinned. And I knew.

The bouquet was coming straight for my head.

Sure enough, she purposely threw it high. I had a split second to contemplate ducking to avoid having a tulip embedded in my eyeball but I reflexively curled my fingers tight around the flower petals and snatched the bouquet out of the air.

The other women gathered on that dance floor whipped around and glared at me like I had done something wrong. I felt they looked at me as if they knew this hallowed tradition/superstition had gone to terrible waste -- like the bouquet should have been tossed to somebody with a chance at fulfilling the prophecy.

The crowd dispersed and I went to the bride. I knew I should at least thank her for her optimism. While she doesn't know my current dating situation, or profound lack of situation she must have made at least one revealing observation.

As we hugged she whispered, "That was for your parents."