When I asked my boyfriend Jean-François if he was going to attend our wedding, he said he'd drop by.
"Drop by?" I huffed. "Good thing I'm not marrying you."
The poor guy was completely perplexed, understandably so. How many men are hitched to an untamed filly who intends to wed herself at a symbolic ceremony with six other brides all dressed in white?
Yes, I married myself last Saturday afternoon on Vancouver's Jericho Beach with a group of gorgeous women. We laughed, cried, preened, frolicked, peed in the bushes and spilled champagne all over our gowns. It was truly magical.
The concept evolved from a series of formal dinner parties thrown in years past by Tallulah, our mistress of ceremonies and dear friend through whom we all met.
As for the date, we unanimously agreed that first full moon after the summer solstice would be appropriate, since this was -- above all -- a celebration of our glorious, gyrating, goddess-like womanhood.
The vintage wedding gowns and veils, which really got the whole ball rolling, were provided by Melanie Talkington, fellow bride-to-be and renowned corsetière. (Her clients include burlesque diva Dita von Teese).
I chose one of Talkington's Victorian bridal corsets (borrowed), with a cap-sleeved camisole underneath (new). The shimmery skirt with a long, flowing train came from an eighties-era wedding gown (old) that I found at a vintage store only three days before the wedding. We simply snipped off the top and tucked it under the corset. I slipped on a (blue) garter -- et voilà!
Even without the hassle of a groom or in-laws, the planning of these unorthodox nuptials wasn't easy. Imagine seven free-spirited brides with strong opinions on everything. Did we have to wear all-white? Of course, think of the striking visual statement it would make.
Should we register? We liked the idea, but thought it would be gauche. We compromised by wording the invitation: "Reception -- and gift opening -- at 5 p.m."
Would we throw a stagette? Brilliant idea (we all dressed in red). Should we feel bad about bouncing NHL star Sidney Crosby and his entourage out of our private Moroccan-style lounge at Sanafir restaurant? Not for a second.
How about the press, which kept hounding us for interviews? We indulged them shamelessly.
What if we were stalked by strangers during the private ceremony? We would politely ignore them. It was, after all, partly a performance piece.
We were having so much fun with the preparations that I was completely caught off guard when pangs of pre-wedding melancholy crept up on me and at least one other.
"I still don't know what I want," Tallulah lamented over lunch. She never regretted not having children until recently, after seeing her boyfriend fuss over his new granddaughter.
I drained my pinot grigio in empathy. After years of studying, travelling, working and moving around, I had finally found my inner fulfilment and was ready to honour it. Why did I feel so empty?
On the big day I slept through my alarm.
"Most brides don't have to prepare cucumber-and-mint finger sandwiches on the morning of their wedding," I apologized to the salon's makeup artist, racing in late.
After I picked up the bouquets, it was off to Talkington's Lace Embrace Atelier to get dressed.
"I feel like a real bride," the ever-sassy Crystal Precious giggled, as we ran around in our underwear, curling our hair and sipping champagne.
Lorenzo, our dashing chauffeur, arrived with his cherry-red convertible Cadillac De Ville and we all piled in, looking like a whipped-cream cloud of silk and Chantilly lace.
"Remember girls, look glamorous at all times," Tallulah trilled as we paraded towards the park. Cars honked, children hollered, women smiled, men waved and bicyclists shouted out their congratulations. Lorenzo was so swept up in the excitement, he insisted on several victory laps around Spanish Banks.
When we finally arrived at the site, a photographer jumped out of the bushes. "I feel like a movie star," Talkington exclaimed.
Paul Scheffer and Aiden Dybka of The Garden Sanctuary had spent the entire morning setting up a romantic picnic with roses, lilies, chestnuts and feathers scattered across white linens. They worked wonders with the pittance we paid them.
To get to the grove, we had to tramp through a path full of thorns. We shrieked the whole way and left a trail of torn bits of crinoline in our wake. When we emerged from the bush, it was perfect. The boys had set up an altar of sorts, complete with champagne chilling in a vase of floating flowers.
"My dear blushing brides, we have come together today to celebrate our wonderful selves and commit wholeheartedly to our lives, our beings and our souls," Tallulah announced, introducing each bride with a toast.
The vows were more profound and moving than any of us had expected. I thanked my mom for always encouraging me to shoot for the stars.
Back at the picnic site, we gorged on fine cheeses, finger sandwiches, mango salad, strawberries and chocolate. The boys stayed to replenish our drinks and cater to our every whim.
When guests arrived, they brought more food and many thoughtful presents: a copy of the book Creating My Own Happiness by Barry Thomas Bechta, a "Wedding for One" compilation CD ( Solitaire by the Carpenters, The One You Love by Rufus Wainwright, etc). A few of the brides changed into white sundresses; one went swimming. We danced the tango, played croquet and cooed over naked babies.
The guest most dear to my heart was Jennifer, a friend I have known since I was three years old. So much of my ambivalence to marriage is tied up in our childhood memories. I'll never forget the confusion and anger we felt when her father went away on a business trip and never came back. I remember the kindred sorrow I felt when my parents separated for a summer. After my father returned, we both clung to his side.
Jean-François arrived as the sun was setting. He brought me a silver ring with mother-of-pearl inlay. "It can be a promise ring, if that's what you want it to be," he whispered.
An inexplicable wave of sadness washed over me and I collapsed into tears. Is this beautiful man really the one?
No matter how loudly I harp about independence and boisterously celebrate my individuality, I am still as confused and conflicted about marriage as he was about this party -- and perhaps about me.
Jean-François pulled me close.
At that very moment, a young girl riding by on her bike skidded to a halt. "Are you the women getting married to yourselves?" she asked, eyes wide with wonder.
"Yes," I replied, brightening at the sight of her toothy grin and glowing innocence.
"Cool! I read about you," she said, before tearing down the path.
I hope that young girl remembers us. I hope the choices she makes in life will be effortless. I hope her smile never fades.
Alexandra Gill is The Globe and Mail's West Coast arts correspondent.
Alexandra Gill