When I received the eagerly anticipated, thick white envelope in the mail, my heart skipped a beat. No, it wasn't an admissions packet to my dream school—that ship had long since sailed. Nor was it emblazoned with Ed McMahon's image proclaiming my millions in prize money. No, this envelope contained an invitation to a wedding. A white wedding.

Embossed with silver and white, the card was the epitome of elegance. "Mr. and Mrs. John Davis request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their daughter Jennifer to John Smith" (names have been changed to protect the non-desi). But I was a tad confused: Where were the bright colors, the gold-edged cards, the multiple inserts detailing myriad events such as mehndis, ladies' sangeets and post-wedding brunches?

Desi weddings have devolved into games of one-upmanship, with each family trying to outdo the last in terms of extravagance and ostentation. I'm expecting the next invitation sent to our home by carrier pigeon or perhaps inscribed in bricks of solid gold. But it seemed that white weddings, or at least my good friend Jenny's wedding, didn't subscribe to that philosophy. There was just the invitation itself and a reply card to indicate the number of guests attending and the meal choice. Choice? So, no seemingly endless buffet line snaking around the ballroom? No groups of people sneaking up before they're called and then stalling the lines by gossiping across the chafing dishes? I almost couldn't fathom such an orderly experience, but I was intrigued by the prospect.

Desi weddings were old hat to me: North Indian, South Indian, Hindu or Muslim—you name it, I'd seen it. But white weddings were a horse of a different color. I'd seen countless weddings in movies and on television, but I'd never actually attended one. I felt a bit like Margaret Mead, on my own anthropological exploration of the mating practices and celebrations of an indigenous culture. I thought about all those faux silver-screen weddings and their innumerable wedding cliches. Would Jenny be late for the wedding? Would John get cold feet? Would an old love from Jenny or John's past come tearing down the aisle, object and forever break their peace?

Imaginings aside, it was now time to focus on logistics. Jenny had invited her friends to the rehearsal dinner, which I learned was traditionally hosted by the groom's family for the wedding party. I was honored to be included, but also a little flustered. I didn't know John's family, yet they were technically my hosts. Was a hostess gift expected? In a desi situation, it's almost shameful to show up at your host's door without a bottle of wine, chocolates or crystal, beautifully wrapped to camouflage the fact that they were "regifted" several times. I lugged out my dusty copy of Emily Post's Etiquette, and after extensive reading, I was a newly minted expert on table seating for a rehearsal dinner, but no wiser as to the gifting protocol. A desperate phone call to another friend gave me my answer: Gifts were given by the bride and groom to the wedding party, and no other favors were to be exchanged.

The day of the wedding dawned with lovely weather and clear blue skies. The guests were dressed elegantly, but not formally. For most shaadis, the goal is to dress to impress. The fancier your clothes and the flashier your jewels, the better. But I suspected it wouldn't be quite right to attend a white wedding decked out in diamonds or drenched in gold. This was my first white wedding, and when in Rome, do as the Romans do. I agonized for months over selecting an appropriate outfit. White was out, even I knew that. But could I wear a strapless dress in a church? Wasn't there some rule that women had to wear hats and cover their shoulders? Or was that only in Catholic churches? Jenny came to the rescue and said that any nice dress would be appropriate, so I settled on an apple green summer dress.

The day of the wedding, my friends and I entered the church lobby. One of the groom's friends approached us. We chatted with him for a few minutes and then excused ourselves to take our seats. He accompanied us, and I thought he was merely seating himself as well. After we slid into a pew, I was quickly disabused of that notion. He turned right back around and escorted other female guests to their seats. Mortified, I realized that he was actually an usher—and we should have walked in on his arm.

The wedding itself was beautiful, heartfelt and brief. I was used to hours—even days—long affairs, but this baby was over in an hour flat. Members of both Jenny and John's families were part of the bridal party and some did readings or lit the Unity candle, but the spotlight remained on the bride and groom. At least in the Hindu weddings I've attended, the family plays a much larger role, whether it's through performing certain rituals, offering prayers or giving blessings. These family interchanges are some of my favorite parts of desi weddings, so this service was certainly a new experience.

Following the wedding's conclusion, we all headed en masse to the hotel for the reception. After dinner, cake-cutting and the requisite speeches came the dancing. And if desis have bhangra or garba rass, white folks have the line dance. There is nothing I despise more than line-dancing—it brings back memories of awkward middle school dances almost always set to terrible music. Besides, I always get turned around and in the wrong direction doing the hustle. And I firmly believe the hokey pokey and the chicken dance should be left to the kindergarten crowd. But in the spirit of friendship, and perhaps due to some spirits, I agreed to get on the dance floor. We celebrated into the wee hours, and some much better musical selections soon purged the dreadful line-dancing horror from my mind. I resisted requesting Billy Idol's "Nice Day for A White Wedding," as I doubted the rest of the crowd would see the humor in it.

My first experience with a white wedding was a qualified success. I committed the occasional faux pas, but nothing on the level of a social solecism. And now with one under my belt, I have the weddings of my other non-desi friends to look forward to. And I am looking forward to them: Maybe I'll take a page out of the desi auntie handbook and start urging my friends to "find a good boy." As every auntie worth her salt knows, it's never too soon for a (white) wedding.