And so my niece has gotten married. At 22, Martha Grace is the same age her mother was when she married back in 1973. My sister Ann was kind enough to have me, her 12-year-old, chubby-cheeked baby sister, in her wedding. I was quite proud to be included, and it made me feel terribly grown-up. No one bothered to school me in the finer points of wedding etiquette however, because when Ann threw the bouquet I practically mowed down my other sister, Ginny, to catch the flying flowers as they arced through the front yard of my family’s home.

Although I was usually quite the sensitive and well-behaved child, on this day I did not realize it was proper for the bouquet to land in the eager palms of a more age-appropriate girl. After someone pointed out my gaffe, I apologized and handed over the blooms to Ginny. She was gracious about the whole thing. Then I asked my mother if I could change out of my bridesmaid’s dress and put on some play clothes.

Having defied tradition so blatantly, I wondered later if I might have jinxed Ginny’s chances of finding a soul mate of her own. I needn’t have worried, though, for she and her husband tied the knot in 1981 and have been married for some 27 years now. I, on the other hand, did not make my way down the aisle until I was 40. Maybe the delay was some sort of cosmic payback for the unladylike bouquet-snatching episode of my youth.

As my family gathered in Birmingham for Martha Grace’s wedding in December, I promised the blushing bride I would be on my best behavior. “My flower stealing days are over,” I assured her. The odds would have been against me anyway, what with my arthritic knees and some 12 girls to overpower. I did, however, muster up the energy and wherewithal to spend an inordinate amount of time on the dance floor with wedding attendants, family members, and perfect strangers, gyrating to “Tighten Up” as if I had been told it would be my last opportunity to do so.

Even today, some three months after the wedding, each night as I lay my head on the pillow I pray I will not wake up to find a video of my antics on You Tube, for more than once I have been accused of dancing “like nobody’s watching.” Thankfully my husband, who is not the gyrating type and instead prefers to stand on the sidelines and smirk, does not know how to work the camera on his cell phone.

When the time came for Martha Grace to toss her own bouquet, it separated into several smaller clusters so multiple girls could catch them…some newfangled invention called a “breakaway bouquet.” My how things have changed since 1973.

I didn’t throw the bouquet at my wedding in 2002. Something about heaving a tightly wound bunch of lilies toward a room full of middle-aged guests—many of whom were shocked even to be witnessing my betrothal—chewing on crudités seemed a bit unseemly at my advanced age. There was no ripping off of the garter, no smushing of cake into the faces of the bride and groom. Just a man and a woman coming together—a bit love weary but still full of hope—vowing to make the best life they could with one another.

Copyright Amy Lyles Wilson, 2008