Weddings are a balancing act—beauty, chaos, and emotions wrapped in one frantic day.
As a planner, my job is to keep the balance, no matter what.
But every now and then, someone comes along determined to tip the scales.
Today, that someone was Tiffany.
I’d been warned. “She’s my cousin,” Kate, the bride, had confessed during planning.
“She’s… dramatic. Allergies, complaints—you’ll see. Just, please, don’t let her ruin it.”
I’d smiled at the time, thinking, How bad could one guest be?
But when Tiffany arrived, I realized I’d underestimated her.
And it was only the beginning.
The Calm Before the Diva
The morning had started like clockwork.
Vendors arrived on time, the florist worked her magic on the garden’s natural beauty, and the bridal party was happily sipping mimosas in the suite upstairs.
Even the groomsmen, notorious for their tendency to wander, stayed in one place long enough for their pre-ceremony photos.
By noon, I was feeling optimistic—cocky, even.
I should’ve known better.
At 1:45 PM, as guests began to trickle in, a silver SUV screeched to a halt in front of the venue.
Out stepped Tiffany, wrapped in a patterned scarf, sunglasses perched on her nose like a celebrity dodging paparazzi.
She walked straight toward me with the determined gait of someone who expected a personal red carpet to unfurl at her feet.
“You must be Grace,” she said, her voice dripping with polite disdain. “We need to talk.”
Here we go.
She leaned in conspiratorially, as if delivering state secrets.
“I have severe pollen allergies,” she declared. “I can already feel it—my throat’s scratchy. Is there a hypoallergenic seating area? Somewhere… flowerless?”
“We do have an allergy-friendly seating option,” I said evenly, gesturing toward a small, shaded area I’d prepared earlier.
It wasn’t the main seating section, but it offered a clear view of the ceremony. “I made sure it’s comfortable and removed any floral arrangements.”
Her lips thinned. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly sit there. I need to be with the family. It’s just—well, this air. It’s going to kill me.”
She punctuated her complaint with a dramatic cough that, to my trained ears, lacked conviction.
I smiled, professional and calm. “I’ll see what I can do.”
What I wanted to say was, It’s an outdoor wedding, Tiffany. Maybe try not breathing?
Petals and Performances
By 2:10 PM, Tiffany was seated in the second row, exactly where she wanted to be, after I’d painstakingly relocated two centerpieces to the back of the garden.
She had already caused a ripple of whispers among the other guests with her exaggerated fanning and muttered complaints about “pollen storms.”
I caught a few rolled eyes from the groom’s side of the aisle, but thankfully, the ceremony began on time.
For a while, I thought we’d gotten through the worst of it.
The string quartet started playing, the bridal party made their way down the aisle without a hitch, and then it was Kate’s turn.
She looked stunning, practically glowing, as she stepped out onto the petal-strewn pathway. Every head turned to admire her.
Except Tiffany’s.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her pull out a tissue.
Then another.
She began dabbing at her nose theatrically, her face twisted in an expression of exaggerated agony. She let out a loud, obnoxious sneeze that startled the toddler in the front row into tears.
The guests stirred, murmuring. The bride paused mid-step, her smile faltering.
My stomach twisted.
“Are you kidding me?” someone whispered behind me. It sounded like one of Kate’s bridesmaids. I didn’t blame her.
I shot a warning glance at one of my assistants, signaling her to prepare for damage control.
Meanwhile, I hurried to Tiffany’s side.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, bending down. “Do you need to step away?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, sniffling dramatically. “It’s just the flowers. I told you this would happen.”
You’re ruining the ceremony, I wanted to shout.
Instead, I plastered on a smile and said, “Let’s move you to the allergy-friendly seating. It’s just as nice, and you’ll be much more comfortable there.”
Tiffany frowned but nodded, probably sensing the mounting irritation of the guests around her.
I escorted her to the secluded section I’d set up earlier, noting how her sneezing stopped almost immediately as we left the main area.
By the time I returned to the aisle, Kate was halfway to the altar. Her expression had regained its joy, but I could tell she was rattled.
My blood boiled. Tiffany was going to ruin this wedding if I didn’t get ahead of her antics.
The Last Straw
As the ceremony progressed, I hovered near Tiffany’s allergy-friendly seating area, keeping a close eye on her.
To her credit, she stayed quiet—for about five minutes.
Then came the sighing.
Then the exaggerated throat-clearing.
Finally, she sneezed again, a theatrical “A-CHOO!” that made heads turn.
I was done.
She was sitting among fake flowers. FAKE. Flowers.
There wasn’t a single speck of pollen in a ten-foot radius. Yet Tiffany dabbed her nose like she was on death’s door.
A small voice interrupted her performance.
“Why are you sneezing?” a curious child asked, tugging at one of the artificial roses nearby. “These flowers aren’t real.”
Tiffany froze, tissue halfway to her nose.
A ripple of murmured realization spread through the nearby guests. One of the groomsmen snorted so loudly I thought he’d choke.
Tiffany, ever the quick thinker, recovered with a dramatic gasp.
“Well,” she sniffed, “it must be the pollen in the air. You can’t see it, but it’s there.”
A few guests rolled their eyes, but most were now trying to suppress laughter. I turned away, biting my cheek to keep from grinning.
Let the scene simmer—I had bigger things to handle, like ensuring the reception didn’t implode.
But karma wasn’t quite done with Tiffany yet.
Karma in Full Bloom
The reception was a thing of beauty: twinkling lights, elegantly decorated tables, and a menu curated to perfection.
Tiffany, undeterred by the earlier faux pas, had positioned herself near the head table, chatting animatedly and undoubtedly fishing for attention.
That’s when the hors d’oeuvres came out. Mini canapés, delicate little bites of art, each labeled with the ingredients for safety.
Tiffany, apparently too engrossed in her storytelling, plucked one from a passing tray without checking.
As the music swelled, I caught the moment out of the corner of my eye: Tiffany froze mid-bite.
Her face went pale, then flushed. She coughed lightly, then clutched her throat, her dramatic instincts kicking into overdrive.
“Is there… is there shrimp in this?” she croaked, loud enough to draw attention from the nearby tables.
The server, startled, glanced at the menu card. “Yes, ma’am, it’s a shrimp mousse with—”
Tiffany shot up from her chair, clutching her chest like she’d been shot.
“I’m allergic to shellfish!” she declared, the volume of her voice earning gasps from a few guests who hadn’t caught on to her theatrics earlier.
The irony hit me like a freight train. The woman who had spent the entire day faking an allergy had finally encountered something real.
The bride locked eyes with me from across the room, her expression torn between shock and barely restrained amusement.
We moved quickly, of course. I alerted the on-site medic, who escorted Tiffany out to be checked.
She ended up being fine—her reaction was mild—but not before creating a commotion that overshadowed the cake-cutting and first dance.
As she was led away, Tiffany muttered something about “unlabeled food” and the dangers of “careless catering.”
I didn’t bother correcting her. The chef’s meticulous labels were still on display, clear as day.
She had no one to blame but herself.
With Tiffany gone, the wedding returned to its magic. Kate and her husband shared their first dance, the guests cheered, and the mood lightened.
By the time the bride tossed her bouquet, Tiffany’s drama was a distant memory, one we’d all laugh about for years.