Walking Down the Aisle Backward


By David Pitlik


from http://www.ungroomd.com
   
 
Today is going to be the happiest day of my life. Iím one short hour 
away from walking down that aisle and becoming husband to the most 
wonderful woman on the face of the planet. And despite weeks and months 
of doubts and second thoughts, Iím not experiencing any of those dreaded 
"cold feet" symptoms this morning. Everything about this feels right. 
Iím taking the next big step in my life and I know itís the right one. 

And so far everything is going like clockwork. The guests are starting 
to arrive. The photographer is setting up. The florist is doing her 
thing. My folks are busy bothering my in-laws-to-be. Everything is under 
control. Nothing can go wrong. Iím ready. This is going to be my finest 
hour. 
 
Looking in the full length mirror, I realize, I am one handsome man. 
Or is it true what they say about every guy looking good in a tux? No 
matter. Today is my day. 
 
Just then, my equally dapper looking best man reminds me how lucky 
we guys have it. "Just think," he says, "one floor down, in a room 
identical to this one, World War III is probably breaking out." Iíll bet 
heís right. No doubt this very moment panic and mayhem are sweeping 
through that bridal suite. My lovely bride and her maids are racing 
against the clock, frantically preparing for the main event. 
 
We guys really do have it easy when you think about it. On our wedding 
day, we simply shave, jump in the shower, towel down, splash on some 
cologne, quick dry the hair, slip into our rented tux and bam! Weíre 
ready for the first day of the rest of our lives. But itís not so easy 
for the fairer sex. They start their planning years in advance, 
pouring over glossy magazines trying to pick out their fantasy gown, 
then once theyíve found it, there are endless fittings and refittings 
because theyíve put on a couple of ounces. Months are spent looking 
for the perfect accessories to match, not to mention the countless 
trips to the mall searching for the right shoes. And as if that werenít 
enough, once the big day arrives thereís an hour to do the hair, 
another hour for the make-up, and yet another hour just to get the 
whole ensemble looking picture perfect. Phew! Iím exhausted just 
imagining it. No, we guys definitely have it easy.
 
Snapping me out of my reverie, my best man points out that itís only 
twenty minutes to show time. I make a few minor adjustments to my 
cummerbund. I must say, I really do look good. And I feel great. Today 
is my day...uh, wait a minute. Thereís one little eyebrow hair that just 
wonít go where itís supposed to. Well, no use forcing it. Iíll just 
pluck out the little sucker. Thank goodness for these tweezers on my 
Swiss Army knife. "Hey, too bad you canít transplant a few of those to 
the back of your head," says my best man, attempting to be funny. Low 
blow. He knows how sensitive I am about my recently noticeable bald spot. 
My bride-to-be claims itís cute, she even calls it her love patch, but 
personally, I hate it. Iíd rather lose a limb. My hair is my masculinity, 
and lately a whole lot of that masculinity has been backing up the 
drain in my shower. 
 
I look at myself again in the mirror. You know what? To hell with it. 
No oneís going to see my hair, not with this winning smile on my face. 
I look good. Today is my day! 
 
"Just think, while youíre saying your vows, exchanging rings and kissing 
the bride, two hundred and fifty of your guests will have little else 
to do than stare at the back of your head," my best man points out with 
an impish grin. I am suddenly gripped with sheer terror! Heís right! They 
wonít see my smile. They wonít see my clean shaven face. They wonít see 
the sparkle in my eye. All theyíll see is the back of my head and that 
lousy, rotten bald spot. I twist around in front of the mirror, trying 
to assess the full extent of my vulnerability. My heart sinks. How can 
they miss that thing? Itís big enough to be seen from the space shuttle! 
Iím screwed. 
 
Panic starts to set in. What can I do? Is twenty minutes enough time to 
have hair implants? Does the hotel guest shop stock toupees? Damn, if only 
Iíd thought of this sooner. Maybe a year ago I couldíve started taking 
Propecia. Or even six months ago gotten my hands on some industrial strength 
Rogaine. But now... now itís too late! 
 
I frantically start pulling off my tux. "What the hell are you doing?" 
asks my not-so-best man. 
 
"What does it look like?" I say, "The weddingís off! If I were Jewish 
this wouldnít be a problem. Iíd slap on the beanie and no one would be the 
wiser, but Iím not, so I canít!" 
 
"Hey, itís not that bad. No oneís gonna say anything. I was just razzing 
you a little, man. You were too calm," says my 
soon-to-be-off-the-Christmas-list best man.
 
I force myself to take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard 
that Iím sure they can hear it all the way down in the bridal suite. I
stare into the mirror. You know, I still look good. Maybe I am overreacting. 
Maybe this situation isnít as bad as Iím making it. I put my tuxedo 
jacket back on and readjust my cummerbund. I take a few more deep breaths. 
Iím starting to feel better. Everythingís going to be okay. I think I can 
handle this. I pull open a couple of dresser drawers, searching past the 
Gideon bible and complimentary note pad. There it is! Problem solved. 
 
My best man watches in utter disbelief as I carefully dab on the black shoe 
polish. Hey, I donít care what anyone says, Iím getting married in less 
than five minutes and today is my day! I just wish I wasnít a blond. 
 





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