World's Worst Flower Girl
Confessions of a Wedding Photographer

I have a confession to make. I am the world’s worst flower girl.

Let me assure you I am not exaggerating. At the age of three I nearly sabotaged an entire processional.

Good news is these days I am much more likely to be the photographer rather than a flower girl on someone’s wedding day.  I remember all the hub-bub for my cousin Julia’s wedding. The fittings for the dress, the absolute disappointment in wearing the white dress instead of the blue, the thrill of wearing a headpiece and shiny new buckle shoes, how perplexed everyone was that of all the cast colours Marissa (my sister) could have chosen a week prior to the wedding after flying off the neighbours trampoline, she chose neon pink. I knew I had one duty – make it down the aisle

Easter baskets in hand we arrived ready for the rehearsal the day before the wedding. First the parents. Then the ring bearer. Then my sister. My turn. All I had to do was make it from that door to the altar and throw some fake flower peddles. That was it. Can do! I took off like a horse to barn. Heck ya I was going to make it to that altar all the while leaving a trail of silk petals in my wake for my cousin to daintily trod upon to her happily ever after. I had this under control. Off I went.

“Slow down!”

Cheeseballs! Strange man (aka. wedding coordinator) is standing at the front of the aisle blocking view of my destination all the while half kneeling at attempt to get down to my level with his hand outstretched indicating for me to halt. I can honestly remember the absolute terror that went through my body and my survival instinct kicking in. Scan the room. Mother located. Run that direction. Through tears I somehow managed to navigate (the wonderfully upholstered) chairs to hide behind her legs – sobbing. Probably wailing to be completely honest. I was a bit sensitive.

No coercing was going to have me walking down that aisle alone again. They must have somehow convinced me to do the recessional, albeit with a death grip on the ring bearer. That was that.

The wedding day arrived.  We were all prettied up. Several times I was reminded to walk slowly down the aisle. I was probably told it was so everyone could see my beautiful dress, or my new shoes. In any case they got their point across.

First the parents. Then the ring bearer. Then my sister. My turn. One foot forward. Other one beside it. Other foot forward. Other foot beside it. That’s right. I funeral marched it the entire way. The processional track probably had to be played three times repeat. My cousin later said she didn’t believe she would be married that day.

So, be glad my only duty at weddings is as a wedding photographer.

(Also revel in the decline in popularity of puffy sleeves)

Several hours following this post: