By Sue Murphy
Once again, I was not invited to the royal wedding. Sadly, I was relegated to sitting on my couch watching the pageantry on TV wearing my Snoopy bathrobe, having tea and scones that I bought myself. I didn’t have to watch the show in my bathrobe, but it was 5:00 in the morning and I didn’t want to miss anything while I was in the shower.
With all the media hoopla, you’d think they would have staged the event during prime time. The networks could have asked Super Bowl prices for the TV spots. I’m not saying they should have interrupted the ceremony. That would be crass. But during the red carpet portion of the program, an official could have jumped into the walkway, waved a red flag and halted the action until the tea cozy or spray-on tan purveyors made their point, then stepped back out signaling time to resume play. “OK, Ms. Winfrey, you may carry on.”
Which is another reason I should have been invited. First of all, I’m short, so I would not have blocked anyone’s view, or the camera’s view of anyone, but most of all because I would have posed no celebrity threat to the bride whatsoever. I don’t know what she was thinking. When you invite Oprah and Serena Williams and George Clooney, for goodness sakes, you can’t be sure that everyone’s eyes will be on you, even if you did spend $350,000 on your dress.
I’ll tell you one thing, if I had received an invitation, I would have quietly seated myself next to the bride’s mother. I know there were a limited number of invitations, but it wasn’t fair to leave her alone to tear up by herself. The poor woman should have been allowed a plus one. Sure, some of her relatives had demonstrated poor judgment, but all of the groom’s wayward and disgraced family members got to come. They dutifully filed in as scheduled but spent most of their time fiddling with their hats and handbags.
Of course, all of that stopped with the arrival of the Queen. I do love that woman. She is the picture of unruffled grace, always dresses to be seen, and if one of the Rolls Royces had broken down on the way to the chapel, she could have used her WWII training to replace the fan belt or ungunk a gasket or whatever you do to fix a car. I don’t know … but she does.
The ceremony was beautiful and touching and full of pleasant, unstuffy surprises. The young cellist about took my breath away and the minister who delivered the ceremony remarks would have gotten a spontaneous “Amen” from any congregation stateside. The choir? Well, it doesn’t get better than that. The happy couple left the chapel to a joyful chorus of “This Little Light of Mine.” It’s a new day, my friends.
The best part, though, was that the vows were traditional. It’s comforting to think that, whether prince or pauper, when you get married, you’re still asked to promise to love and honor and cherish till death do you part. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but you only hit what you aim at.
I would have loved to have attended the wedding in person, but alas, I am more Downstairs than Upstairs and that will have to do. Who knows where I’ll be by the time the next round of royals gets married? I’ll hang onto my teacup just in case, but I’ll probably have to get a new bathrobe. I’m thinking royal blue.
