Yes, that’s me holding the bouquet! I’m the one looking flushed, glowing, and ever so magnetic in that pervasive wedding day luster that seems to ooze from every pore. The pearly whites showing between the pert parting of my crimson painted lips can’t really be accounted to a particular feeling of joy however. The flushed cheeks are more likely the result of having spent four hours in utter embarrassment, and the glow merely a scorched burn from what seemed like forever standing in the noonday sun posing for an endless array of “say cheese” photos. Oh, and we mustn’t forget about that magnetic aura I seem to have been exuding that day. I think we can chalk that one up to none other than The Wedding Day Dating Game I seem to have become an unwilling participant in as soon as the hosts saw that my RSVP signaled that I was flying solo for their special day.

I'm not quite sure who imposed the rule of thumb that glorified weddings as the seemingly perfect landscape to cultivate a relationship, but I'm starting to wonder whether or not the gross rumor was started by the mouth of a happily matched person standing on the outskirts of that bridal bouquet toss.

Oh yes, you know that bouquet I was clutching? Well, it didn’t exactly belong to me, but was instead simply handed over by my elder sister; the one wearing the long white gown that day. Given my six and twenty singlehood status, I’m guessing that it was to serve as a hint that I should at least begin to relinquish my ties to that idea of life long bachelorettehood.

Ah, yes, the joys of being amongst the lone sheep in a herd of, at least for that one day, perfectly appointed couples, all completely enraptured by the happiness exuded by the beaming bride and groom standing upon the threshold of matrimony. Let me state up front that I'm very much aware that this day is designed to be a celebration for the soon to be Mister and Misses, but I will no longer be fooled into believing that there isn't a latent undertone to the whole spectacle. Having just returned from yet another bridal bouquet toss, I am ever more certain that weddings are partially attended simply as a means for further propagating the actual ceremonious union.

Let’s first take the parade of guests marching into the house of I Do. It’s here that one must choose sides. Oh no, I’m not speaking of the way in which you answer the question “friend of the bride or groom?” but whether or not you physically answer the single or not question by your requirement of that arm of guidance extended by the groomsman standing at the front door. It’s at this crucial moment in the game where your status is officially recognized, for unless you managed to talk the shopping cart toting homeless dude outside into parking his trolley for a brief rendezvous in the steeple, you’re pretty much going to be plagued as fair game for the next 3-5 hours.

If you’ve already proceeded past the point of no return, at least you can find comfort in the fact that at least for the next 20 to 60 minutes (even longer if the head of ceremony dons a white robe and asks you to join him in father, son, and holy spirit hand gestures throughout the exchanging of vows) you are free to rest easy. Everyone knows that it’s all together rude to talk during the ceremony

It’s too bad that rather than wedding favors, the hosts of the wedding shindig couldn’t think to invest in some sort of saving grace or means of escape for the poor souls stuck next to Mr. Schmooze or Ms. Ooze who just happen to both be single, and low and behold sitting right next to you at the reception table. Ah yes, you better believe those innocent looking place cards are most definitely involved in an umpteen hour game of shift and shuffle, for there would be no excusing a placement of one lone single amid a circle of happily attached duo’s.

And yes, this is where the fun begins. Unless you have a knack for a quick shift and shuffle of your own, there is simply no escaping the fact that you are going to live out your actual first date right here and now amongst your closest friends and family. What could be better than spending the evening dining and dancing with your single, forth removed cousin (not blood related you’re quickly reminded) who your relatives are almost certain is heterosexual? Oh and never you mind that 15-year age gap. It only equates to a depth and weathered demeanor that could only aid in your relationship. “What are a few years in the name of love anyway”, squawks your dear Aunt Edna as she discreetly slips your phone number into the pocket of the person she’s just positive is going to be the love of your life. Ah yes, the dinner table wouldn’t be complete if it weren’t shared with a Dr. Ruth type matriarchal figurehead. She’s the one just itching to point her cupids arrow and peg you right in the bum as you lean over to whisper a sweet “leave me the hell alone” into the ear of the kook positioned next to you.

As if the dance card filled with every schmuck (yours truly to be excluded of course) who couldn’t talk someone into attending an event with free food weren’t bad enough, there is also that dreaded moment wherein you are subjected to what can only be described as the low point in your browse through the Singles-R-Us Superstore. Oh yes, it’s that wedding day moment when every “single” specimen in attendance is all of a sudden spurned into an immediate bathroom run in a uniform escape from the dreaded bouquet and garter toss. Sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but there truly is no escape. You don’t really think that DJ was hired to turn records do you? Oh no, he is in cahoots with the whole lot of them, ever ready to call you out from that huddled position behind the urinal.

I’m not all cynical when it comes to wedding day high jinks. I mean with an open bar and a little frosting, it sure as hell beats the normal matchmaking scenario. In what other pickup joint are you actually considered a good sport for doing the hokey pokey, drinking like a fish, and banging on your crystal glass with your dinner fork? Hey what’s a little polka with Mr. Schmooze or Ms. Ooze when you get all this fun in return?

Oh and if anyone happens to find a dried up bouquet of violets tucked discreetly behind a ladies room stall, don’t touch it! There’s simply no need to further perpetuate this type of thing.