I am in my sister’s wedding in October. Along with Flora — the flower girl, aptly enough — and another maid of honor, and her future stepdaughter as the junior bridesmaid. It’s a small wedding party, which is great.
As the married woman of the group, I am expected to carry a title that I have a strong dislike toward.
I am officially declaring that in the program and in all other communiques regarding Dr. Sis’s wedding, I would like to be referred to as the Married Maid of Honor — the MMOH.
Not that other word.
That other word is for powdered aunts over 70 years old. It is for proper ladies who wear pearls. It is for women of a certain age. I may someday be a powdered aunt who properly wears pearls. I probably will be of a certain age — in 40 more years.
But I just can’t embrace my proper title. Yes, I am (happily!) married; I have delivered four children and am raising three.
I own a lovely pair of pearl earrings passed down from my grandmother.
Otherwise, I just don’t see myself as a… you know. That word.
Along those lines, I am planning a Girlie Weekend in the Philadelphia area for the women of the wedding. Any restaurant or spa suggestions are welcome. (See, I’m planning spa time! Those M-words don’t go to spas!) I also regularly panic about the thought of giving a toast. I’m not a nervous public speaker per se, but I’ve no idea what to say. I guessing the shorter the sweeter, right?
My sister was my MOH. She wrote and read a poem as her toast. It was pretty impressive, so I do have a bit of an act to follow.