The morning began with a missing veil. This wasn’t unusual in her family; things tended to vanish when her Aunt Shirley was around. Shirley had a habit of “borrowing” items, often announcing that she was only taking them “for safe-keeping,” and then promptly forgetting where “safe” was. After half an hour of searching, they discovered the veil under the sink, wrapped around the plunger. Nobody confessed, but Shirley suddenly developed a keen interest in the plumbing situation.

Marianne laughed it off nerves buzzing and decided it was a good omen. “A plunger is symbolic,” she told her bridesmaids. “Marriage is messy, and sometimes you need to unclog things.” They applauded her optimism, though mostly because the champagne had started flowing early.

At the church, her father tripped walking her down the aisle. He didn’t fall thank heavens but he did stumble just enough to look like he was inventing a new dance move. He whispered to her, “I call it the Shuffle of Regret.” That nearly made her laugh through her veil, which would have been fine if not for the priest misinterpreting her muffled snorts as weeping.

And then came the vows. Sweet, heartfelt… until the groom’s phone rang. He’d forgotten to silence it, and for reasons nobody could explain, his ringtone was a mariachi version of “Baby Got Back.” The priest tried to soldier on, but Marianne nearly collapsed against the altar laughing.

The reception should have been calm. But nothing at this wedding was calm.