Weddage 2

Okay, so the gauntlet is thrown. Every time Ms. Hardwick has a family member die, she writes a touching homage to the ephemeral nature of life. Every time I go to a wedding, I'm-a gonna write a sardonic treatise on the sad state of affairs regarding love in the world. Game on!

As my escort, Ms. Milk, and I drove up to the chapel, she asked if it was a Catholic wedding. Had I understood what awaited us in the ceremony, I would have told her that we were going to have a hard time keeping Jesus out of our intestines, let alone our hearts. I went to goddamn Catholic school (they HATE it when you describe it that way) and I don't know that I heard the words "God" and "Jesus" that many times throughout my entire tenure. Let me tell you all something, Jesus is a pretty busy deity, being at the bottom of everything. Anytime the word "love" came up, it was as though the minister was contractually obligated to point out that Jesus copyrighted love about a zillion times over and any time we are experiencing anything other than abject misery, we need to think about a bloody, tortured waif and thank Him. Naturally, after talking about Jesus and God to the audience for awhile, the minister invited the couple up to the dais, and talked to them about Jesus and God. While I'm not Christian, I don't necessary want to blaspheme too badly, so I'll sum the whole thing up this way: if this service didn't give God a big ole' God-boner, nothing would. (I doubt God reads this blog, and if He does, I hope He's into jokes about His holy genitalia.)

Anyway, with all that religion out of the way, it was time for the drinking. The good news is that being Catholic requires being pious half the time and piss-drunk the rest. Ms. Milk had graciously assumed driving duty, so I took it as a personal challenge to be the drunkest person at the party, yet still be incredibly charming and clever. To be fair, this is my primary intention most nights when I go out, and this same M.O. recently resulted in me being hit on by a very cute bartender and responding with: "Yeah...I get Stella 'cause Streetcar Desire and yells 'STELLA!!!'...so that desire...yeah and the thing about that is...did I your name?" Even with this knowledge, I made the commitment to drink red wine in quantities generally used to describe the payload of oil tankers. The first indication that I had made an outstanding decision was my obsession with my reflection in the mirror. I was banned from sitting across from the mirror at the dining room table as a kid, and that was before I learned that red wine turns me into the most attractive human being alive.

As I was now a social grenade, it was time to say "hi" to the members of my high school class who were in attendance. All of my actual friends were on the bride's side, but there were a number of members of my high school class on the groom's side, and upon seeing their posse arrive, the gentle Ms. Milk was curious as to "What's with all the douchebags?" She obviously did not attend high school with me, because these people were pretty low on the mammoth, twisting douchebag hierarchy of my high school; basically "douchebags light." That said, I have no idea what it is about my personality that makes people I was not close with in high school want to talk to me. However, with the comely Ms. Milk in tow, I was even more formidable, and I staged one of the most impressive social coups I can remember. Basically, I went outside, and, in a 10 minute smoke break, out-cooled the cool kids to a degree that I went back inside to a chorus of "Daaaaaamn." Ms. Milk was impressed, and I made sure to do a victory lap past the mirror, to notice that, yes, I was still looking better than any mortal human has a right to. Ms. Milk rightfully concluded that she was also frighteningly good-looking, and we decided that, due to the shortage of any worthy partners for either of us, we would be one another's "date" rather than go through the lengthy explanation that, yes we're straight and single, but platonic. We were lookin' too good.

The entertainment was orchestrated by the most awesome person alive. Seriously, I would not have believed this guy existed. Here's this 50-55 year old guy who basically runs this synth-cover/karaoke/dj one-man operation. Now, his synth covers of Journey and Cutting Crew were expected, but he followed up the chicken dance with a karaoke version of Flo Rida's "Low" that was done with such simple, naive enthusiasm that it caused the bride to stop what she was doing for an "is this actually a dream?" pause. When he rapped "When she throws her legs on my shoulder" it resulted in all of the children who had been shuffled onto the dance floor for the chicken dance being shuffled off, possibly back to church. After a bit more dancing, another gallon of wine, and a few well-deserved fist bumps from my new parishioners, it was time to hit the road and congratulate both my date and myself on a job well done. We managed to go to a wedding and not leave depressed.

Overall, it was odd to see someone I had grown up around get married, especially to a guy she went to prom with, and always seemed better than. The toasts were friendly and well-executed, but I couldn't help but see this as a "people need to get married, and it was time" wedding. Maybe that's most weddings, and maybe my cynicism will dissolve when I'm getting ready to marry someone, but it's hard to say. Weddings don't really seem like they're a right of passage for the bride and groom, more for the families. I guess that makes sense, but it seems awfully elaborate, and also disingenuous. I caught a few expressions of the bride that seemed to be "well, this is it, but what is it?" It's weird that weddings always make me happy to be single; it's like I know that somehow I'll do it right when I get the opportunity and it will be genuine and perfect...but what if in, say, five years from now, I'm staring at a person I'm ostensibly in love with, in front of a hundred beaming people and wondering exactly what "it" is?