That Time I went to CA for a wedding part 3

                 

The only downside to this reunion of friends is that one of the groomsmen is missing after being in a rather horrendous scooter vs. car accident that didn’t end well for him or the scooter, though I’ve gotten no update on the scooter’s condition, which seems a bit thoughtless. Naturally, one of the first things my friends do when they arrive is show me a picture of a gaping wound in his leg, the ham string exposed completely, skin shorn away. We are but sacks of flesh.  A long time ago we took bets on which one of us would be the first to kick the bucket, because you know, given enough time to write even a group of monkeys could write Shakespeare. This particular friend was the near unanimous pick to win or lose the betting pool, depending on your belief in the afterlife. And we give him credit for at least taking an honest shot at proving us all right, though admittedly we’re all rather relieved to be wrong for the time being. Other comments include, “If he didn’t want to come to the wedding I feel like he could have just said no. Well, he’s an actor, and they have to do everything dramatically.” By this point in time, he was at least out of the ICU, so I feel like the jokes were kosher. 

                Untethered from certain afternoons, in thin strips of light, one can think that we’ll all gather again someday for a funeral. For now though, eat drink and be merry.    

        

As soon as we’re comfortably at the rehearsal, exchanging compliments about our costumes, we start drifting away from the larger group of people. We’ve been friends forever which necessarily means shutting out other groups of people to maintain your friendship. Sadly, we get drawn in to conversations by other partygoers, or I think we’d have fallen off the side of the hill in the garden in attempt to seclude ourselves. Belonging to any group entails a necessary act of seclusion or shutting off. In order to spend time with A, you are necessarily not spending time with B. Actually, math confuses me, so I’ll leave the analogy alone as I believe all I proved above was the necessity of motion as it relates to Xeno’s paradox.

                Including my own, I’ve been in twelve weddings. I’d like to think this makes me a wedding expert. However, I’ve never once been the bride, or the maid of honor, or the mother of the bride, or the wedding coordinator. At any wedding, at least one of these people is stressing out about every last detail, which makes them extremely useful and like hell to be around. As far as details go, I’ve pretty much haven’t made it beyond getting a tux and having a corsage pinned on me. I’ve learned nothing. Here’s what I do know:  at an assigned time I’ll be walking down the aisle in the company of a young woman who will be dressed in a gown that matches in one way or another other young women also walking down the aisle. I will be walking slowly. Later, at the conclusion of the ceremony, after the bride and groom have been married and run off, I’ll be walking down that same aisle, except, this time no one really cares because the bride and groom have already gone and everyone is looking for purses and hats and directions to the reception and wondering if there will be an open bar, which means that you can walk or skip, or strip down to your underwear and it’s unlikely anyone will notice. 

                I get matched up randomly by the groom and stand idly next to my bridesmaid, who says, “Who am I matched up with?” Apparently wearing a cowboy outfit makes you invisible too. I might use it to try and rob banks. At some point, we practice walking down the aisle. We walk down the aisle two or three times because that is the prescribed number of times that you walk down the aisle at a rehearsal. I have to tell you that after eleven weddings I am walking down the aisle like a champ, smiling regally and nodding to people in the crowd, even though there isn’t a crowd, and I’m smiling at no one. The key to this whole endeavor is to walk slowly. However, fast you are walking, walk slower. If you find that you’ve come to a complete stop, start walking backwards.  You’re still going too fast. Also don’t forget to smile benevolently and nod like you’ve been there before because a photographer is going to be taking pictures and you want to look like the sort of person who knows how to walk down an aisle like a pro. The only downside to this whole multiple wedding business is that I keep getting older, and I have to compensate for my declining looks by smiling even more regally and walking even more slowly. I wish everyone had gotten married when I was 22.  

                After we’re done rehearsing we stand around and give the groom a hard time about being a DO instead of an MD, crediting him as almost making it through to be a doctor. Either every one of us is good natured or secretly hates the others, but the groom takes it in stride, claiming that he can heal cancer with a properly applied neck massage. I don’t remember the exact distinction between DO and MD, but I’m pretty sure it has mostly to do with massage therapy and acupuncture  vs. you know, medicine. 

                Before we head over to the rehearsal I stop by the hotel and have a glass or two of champagne with my friend and his wife. And I have to tell you that it is good to see everyone’s wives at this wedding. We have been taking guys trips for five years now, and whatever stereotypes you have of a bunch of males hanging out over the course of a weekend in some random city actually all turn out to be true. Basically, it’s like every show on CBS, totally scripted in such a way so that you know the writers aren’t even trying, but it pleases the masses. We tend to play video games, drink beer, (though not me because I suspect beer tastes like dog piss, I haven’t had dog piss, but I have had beer) and trade off color stories from our shared pasts. And so it is good to see the wives for once, the people with whom my friends have willingly chosen to spend the rest of their lives. And, being married myself, I realize how strange it is that we see each other out of this context, out of the day to day grind that comprises every working person’s life, job, come home, watch television, eat ice cream, sleep and rewind. I feel especially benevolent towards them because I am drinking glasses of champagne, and two glasses of anything turns me into a lover of humanity. After two glasses of wine, you can probably talk me into saying that communism probably just needs to be given one more shot because it’s such a good idea that will probably turn out well one of these days. 

                I don’t entirely remember what I had at the rehearsal dinner. Someone needs to send me with a card to write down the normal things that I do on these trips, because my wife is forever calling and asking me how the dinner was, or whether I brought more than one pair of socks, and, though I remember sometimes, it’s often a bit foggy. This is primarily because I eat like a person who’s life depends on it, with the kind of focus that you see from Olympic athletes. I don’t do a lot of things well, but I do eat quickly. If I wasn’t married, this is probably what would wind up on my online dating profile. I can tell you that the wine was good that I spoke to the groom’s mother, told her that she was my favorite teacher in first grade for installing confidence in me, which is true and good and at least part of the reason that I’m in an education program right now. Note: I had lasagna, the Caesar salad and a torte for dessert. I remember everything. 

At some point my friend and I went downstairs and had a shot of whiskey and chatted with the bar tender. After our drink, he pours us a glass of something else, pushing it towards us. We take a drink, and it tastes delicious, not alcoholic at all, with a smooth and fruity aftertaste. It’s the sort of drink that you know only a professional could mix up, managing to mask the strong flavors of alcohol with a few splashes and sprigs of roots and tubers. I’m tempted to ask if he’s a mixologist. “This is really good,” I say. My friend agrees, and I ask, “What is it?”  

“Cherry coke,” the bar tender answers, proving that old and true adage, alcohol tastes awful.