Dude of Honor
Who says someone of the opposite sex can’t stand up for you? One man tells his tale from the other side
By Matthew M. F. Miller
CTW Features
I wasn’t sure which hand I should hold the bouquet in order to make the most seamless handoff to the bride once the first kiss had ended. As I stood before the crowd shifting the flowers from hand to hand, the head bird in a flock of migrating bridesmaids, I was no longer sure in which direction I was supposed to fly.
Sarah and I became best friends in third grade; we won a rap contest together; we shared an apartment in college; and when I asked my wife to marry me, I chose her to assume the role of my best man. Over a bottle of wine, we both decided it would be silly to let a little thing like gender sway us into choosing a lesser friend to hold the post of honor, so we made a pact that convention would not keep us from standing up for each other.
Five years after my wedding, after years of wanting and looking for the perfect love, Sarah called me with news of her engagement, and a mere four months later I was on a plane en route to Lancaster, Pa., to fulfill my duties as maid of honor.
My outfit was purchased without ever coming into contact with my body – I was to wear what the groomsmen wore and not the sleek, sleeveless brown dresses worn by my fellow attendants. Decked out in a camel-colored vest, collared shirt and brown velvet pants, it was hard not to feel like the ugly duckling of the bridal prep room. It was equally hard not to feel like a member of a show choir.
Two hours before show time, hairspray was flying, curlers were curling and the bald dude of honor could offer very little in the way of primping or priming advice for the bride-to-be as the other attendants fussed with her hair and talked about their experiences of being wives.
When it was time for Sarah to don her gown, I stood in the stark white bathroom humming a song while the other bridesmaids helper her into her immaculate dress. Gender was making a difference, and I was beginning to worry that my innate man-ness was blurring the vision of me as the perfect maid of honor I knew I could be.
Once the prettiness-prep was complete, however, all fears that I had little to offer my best friend were assuaged. Ring in pocket, the ceremony memorized and the perfect post-ceremony toast bubbling in my head, I greeted guests, gave marching orders to friends and family looking for direction, stood tall in photo after photo and ushered a secret note to the groom-to-be. I organized people for photos, arranged Sarah’s belongings for the getaway, put ample tissues in my pockets and even remembered to prompt the other bridesmaids to maintain our half of the descending “V” shape at the altar. High heels or no high heels, I was the woman in charge.
Moments before the ceremony, as the bridal party traipsed around the carriage house to the entrance of the hall, I held Sarah’s arm to make sure she stayed afoot on the rocky terrain, and when we arrived back inside, I pulled her into my arms and hugged my best friend for the last time before Sarah Schmitt became Sarah Zahn.
After the first kiss, after a flawless flower exchange and the pronouncement of husband and wife, I walked down the aisle with the best man, side-by-side but not arm-in-arm, and I have rarely felt as happy or as beautiful as I did being her honored friend.
