I wasn’t 100 percent sure how I felt about the men in my life – namely, the Hubster, Surfer Dude and Manchild #2 – wearing skirts to our firstborn’s wedding. I’d certainly had long enough to think about it since his intention to be wed in a kilt had been known since he was 12 years old and he is now 29. His kilt was purchased and shipped earlier this year and he brought it with him from Oregon.

So, the wedding week, which tripped along for eight days prior to the big event, included a trip to the formal wear shop for the fitting of the rented kilts onto the bodies of the six-and-a-half men of the wedding party.

“How’d it go,” I and the other women-folk asked when they returned from the fitting. I half expected a bunch of sullen guy-types who in the course of trying on kilts realized they would not be wearing pants at a festive event that involved an audience of a hundred family members and friends of the couple.

But they were not sullen. They seemed to be in really high spirits that were getting higher by the minute.

“It went great. Cool,” said my guy.

They each gave their assessment of how they all looked. The father of the bride said his was too big because he’d lost a bunch of weight since he’d sent his measurements in, but the bride’s mom was ready (and more than able) to take up the slack. The only other complaint was a too tight pair of socks which would be replaced by a new pair to be shipped in by wedding day.

The guys congratulated each other on how manly they looked in the kilts. They brandished their sock knives, and seriously, they walked differently. I swear they did.

“Underwear?” I asked.

“You’d have to be a better man than any of us to go without underwear in wool pleats.”

Okay then.

The wedding day began with an orange glow overtaking the night sky as I sipped coffee on the porch. The morning of our precious first child’s wedding day was born with a happy blue sky.

In town was BFF Mary Ann. She brought with her the steamer we’d used about this time last year for her daughter’s wedding dress. She offered to do the same for our bride’s dress which was a few houses down from ours with all the women. When she finished, she came down our way to the house where the menfolk were watching the Clemson football game, biding their time until the Main Event.

“Do you need any help with the kilts?” she asked.

“I think they’re all fine, in here,” I said, and showed her the closet where all the kilt-wear was hanging. I pushed each suit bag (those suckers weighed a ton) along the closet rod and came to the one for the groom. It had only the shirt and jacket in it.

I called to him, “Where’s your kilt? I see everyone’s but yours,” I said.

He came bouncing into the room.

“It’s in my backpack,” he said as he unzipped the jam-packed bag and pulled out a wadded up mass of plaid and pleats.

“It’s WRINKLED!” I was a little upset.

“It’s the least wrinkled thing I own,” he said in defense of his kilt.

About then BFFMA stepped in with her steamer. We enlisted the Manchild #2 to help her. Somehow she managed to get a million pleats hanging straight and ready to wear.

By the time I’d wedged myself into my dress and reemerged, the first floor of the house was filled with handsome men in kilts. And I immediately recognized the swagger I’d noticed the day of the fitting and said so to my guy.

He whipped his knife out of his sock. “A man wearing a kilt has to act like he means business.”

Next week: On the beach: Let’s get married!

Click here for photos; also, visit Judy Watts on facebook.com; or twitter with jujujudy.

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