So, yesterday I was invited at the last minute to the wedding of a guy I’ve met a couple of times through my friend Duncan. A FOAF wedding invitation. We’ve hung out before, have similar interests, and I like the guy, so I showed up and dutifully sat in the back for the 5 minutes of wedding and the 25 minutes of follow-up pictures of the various people involved.
As I don’t know anyone who isn’t in the wedding party, I sit by myself and drink a watered-down Diet Coke until I figure out that, right across the hall in the VFW building where the wedding took place, was a bar. So after a drink upgrade or two and the opening of the buffet, I trek through the line and sit, again by myself. Josh waves; I wave back. Seeing many empty seats and most of the bridal party not sitting at the table with the bride, I break wedding protocol and pull up a chair at the big table. After all, I don’t know ANYONE there other than people in the wedding party and if the bridesmaids can’t be bothered to sit where they’re supposed to, that means I can do whatever I want.
While watching all the various first dances (bride and groom, mom and broom, dad and bride, etc.) I came to a decision regarding my matrimonial future. I am absolutely, 100%, not wanting to ever get married. Not because it’s too expensive (though it usually is), not because weddings always give me a stomach ache (because of li’l smokies and chocolate fountains… combining smoked sausage and chocolate is a bad idea), but because I’d cry WAY too much to make it through a wedding. All that pomp and circumstance is for the bride, anyway; just drop me off at the Justice of the Peace or in front of a sea captain and I’m ready to go.
I know me. I’m a big bundle of Irish emotions. We’re a very pro-crying people. Me moreso than some others. I’ve always been this way, too. If I see someone I know crying, it immediately gets dusty for me, too. Which is odd, because most of the time I carry myself in a very distant manner, holding my cards close to the vest and all that business. But still, weddings and all the sappy stuff that goes along with them absolutely slaughter me, and nobody wants to see a fat guy cry unless the buffet is out of sausage balls.
God help me if I ever have a daughter. God help me if I ever have any kid that has any sort of special milestone. You’ll know which one is mine; I’ll be in the audience, sobbing like a bitch.