My Panache: Where did it go?

I miss my panache. Isn’t that a great word? It comes from a French word with the connotation of flamboyant manner and reckless courage. It stirs up images of Cyrano de Bergerac in the play of the same name. However, unlike this fictional character, I don’t seem to be keeping my panache intact.

Cyrano's last words: " ... yet there is something still that will always be mine, and when I go to God's presence, there I'll doff it and sweep the heavenly pavement with a gesture — something I'll take unstained out of this world ... my panache "

Maybe some of you imagine me to be a person who exudes confidence and flair, but you should have seen me earlier this month as I shriveled in the face of another cultural faux pas. I was anything but effervescent. Instead I was insecure and trying to shrink myself to a more acceptable size in this culture.

The occasion was a wedding in which I was to be the ring bearer. You read that right. Technically I was the “madrina” of the rings, which is supposed to be quite an honor. It means I was the sponsor for the bride and groom’s rings. In other words, I paid for the rings. That much I understood. However, I didn’t know what else that would entail.

Arriving at the church on time, I sat in an inconspicuous place and waited and waited. An hour later the bride and her family arrived, and the bride’s sister came and asked me what on earth I was doing sitting there. I was to process into the church and be seated in a place of honor on the front row.

Still in possession of the rings and uncertain what to do, I awkwardly walked into the church in solemn procession, feeling like a giant directly behind the bride’s parents who are both at least a foot shorter than I am.

Shortly into the ceremony the pastor asked the bride and groom what tokens they had, and they announced “rings.” The pastor looked over to me, and I nervously went up in front of a very packed church and handed the pastor the black velvet case from the jewelry store. He looked at me blankly, and then told me to open it. Oh, so I guess I was supposed to know that. Anyway then I went back and sat down, totally lacking in any degree of panache. I felt like a complete idiot. A rehearsal might have been helpful.

When the pastor asked for the next token, the “madrina” of the coins went up with a flourish of panache, and presented her token in a gorgeous, ornate little box. The next gift was presented in a decorative glass case, and another token was displayed on a silver platter. I soon learned that the rings were to have been presented in a similar way. Ack. How was I supposed to know? I cringe with the very memory of my publicly humiliating loss of panache.

IRL*You’d think this feeling of being an outsider would fade after 25 years, but it keeps returning.