When my sister got married four years ago I opted not to bring a date and instead bring four of my closest friends. When advised of the fiscal irresponsibility of my plan, I argued that my sister was leaving our family to go off and start one of her own, and while I am not an overly protective brother, it was still painful thinking of my sister no longer as a “Murphy,” but now as an “Allen” (not his first name). Hence, I needed my friends there with me for comfort and support.
Truth be told, the only reason I took a posse instead of a date is because I love weddings. Absolutely love them. I think they’re the most fun parties you can throw. I’m not one of those people who complains that all the lovey-dovey, cake-in-the-face stuff is over the top and barf-inducing. I see open bar, free food and at least thirty people who are worse dancers than I am. I’m sold. Count me in. And as with all good parties, include my best friends.
My parents decision to include my posse in the wedding was in all likelihood one they lost sleep over in the days approaching the wedding. Flashbacks of nights spent at their house on Long Island, all of us awake at 2:00AM, still drinking, playing the guitar while composing songs like, “My Aorta (A Love Song)” and “Let Me Out of the Trunk, I’m Not Dead.” And there’s no doubt that it could have been a fiasco, nor is there any doubt that it very nearly was a fiasco, or that some people, in retrospect, do in fact refer to it as a fiasco. (I was informed after the fact that the groom’s family was worried that we weren’t guests, but rather wedding crashers. They’ve warmed up to us since then.)
But my sister enjoyed it. She enjoyed it when we requested “Sex Machine” by James Brown and, halfway through the song, my friend Matt pretended to faint on the dance floor, and my friends and I cleared a circle around him and began waving our hands frantically over him in an ancient James Brown healing ritual, causing Matt to rise up once again (in time with the music) and walk calmly back to his seat while my friend Scott draped his jacket over Matt’s shoulders. She also loved it when we cleared the dance floor, sat her down in a chair in the center of it and danced around her to “Dancing Queen” in what can only be described as the gayest moment of our lives. I’m not sure if she liked the pictures of our balls we took with the disposable camera left on our table, but I can’t be sure because I don’t think she ever saw them. But that’s a whole different story. Or maybe that’s just one of those things we’ll forget I said. (In our defense, we were going through the Freudian stage of psychosexual development known as “The Balls Stage,” also referred to in some circles as “College” and “Being Drunk A Lot.”)
Yup, no doubt about it: I love weddings.
And then this past weekend happened . . .
Let’s just say that the wedding I attended this past weekend was the equivalent of finding a hair in your favorite sandwich from your favorite deli. Only it’s not just a hair, it’s a hair with a piece of lint on it. And the lint is dirty. And from now on, every time you order that sandwich you’re going to remember that dirty, linty hair.
Details to follow.