I am not a big fan of weddings. Next to funerals and riots, they are my least favorite social functions to attend. My favorites are — in no particular order — ritual circumcisions, sweat lodges, armistice agreements and public executions.
Of course, being a groomsman is much worse than just going to a wedding. At 34, all of my friends were married long ago. Then I decided to go back to school and hang out with 19 and 20-year-olds. Long story short about to get long again, three weddings in the last year so far and now one of my little buddies wants me to be a groomsman.
It isn’t basking in other people’s happiness that I hate so much ... no, wait, I do hate celebrating other people’s happiness more than anything. My existence is pretty empty, bitter, dull, loveless, petless, even plantless and sometimes pantsless so being asked to publicly acknowledge and participate in the joy of others is about as much fun to me as eye surgery.
There is something inconvenient about attending someone else’s celebration of wedded bliss. The miserable individual buying the happy couple a gift is a rude social irony. But to have to stand up during the whole thing? That just crosses the line from friendly obligation to brutal indignity.
And of course they’re Catholic, too, so this thing isn’t going to be a 15-minute rite of passage either. It’s going to go on and on and on until not only the bride and groom feel married but everyone in the church, the guy down the street and even the lilies of the field. The nerve of some people.
Frankly, I’m tempted to end the friendship just to get out of the wedding. If I had to drive far, miss “The Hulk” or be out after 9 at night, I’d probably tell them to go do something biologically improbable. Seeing as their wedding night is involved, they were probably going to try it any way.
My favorite part is the tuxedo fitting. Not the wearing of the tuxedo, although that bites too, but actually having a stranger measure all your body parts. I suppose if you are skinny as a rail or super buff it’s no problem, but I’m a bit of a fatty the way Robert Downey Jr. kind of likes heroin. There is nothing less likely to harsh my mellow than hearing the words “Brianne, could you bring me TWO tape measures and some duct tape, please?”
The only saving grace is I will not be expected to pay for the rental of the monkey suit myself unlike most bridesmaids and their hideous dress. They should go on strike. Not only are they asked to look like hell in comparison to the bride, they have to pay for the humiliation of wearing their worst fuschia taffeta nightmares in public.
At least there is the payoff of the bachelor party the night before and the reception right after, huh? Not for me, I’m on about four different kinds of medication. So these days I do all things sober (isn’t that an NPR show?).
Alcohol is bad for you. Legally, ethically and morally I feel obligated to say so. But there are a lot of things alcohol makes easier, that’s why it’s called “a crutch.” Explaining how you know the groom for four hours to Talula, the bride’s great aunt from Keokuk even she hasn’t seen since she was 3-years old, for example, that takes anesthetic.
I really don’t see any advantage to being married that just living together doesn’t accomplish without all the fuss. Does it really matter if children are “legitimate” these days? Being born “out of wedlock” doesn’t carry the same stigma it once did. Get over it.
Amen, man. Testify! :)
by Ian at June 20, 2003 11:26 PM
As you noted in the post that disappeared in the meltdown, revenge isn't necessarily a bad thing. You should try to seduce the blushing bride. She'll probably be drunk from all that toasting. Of course, there's that cumbersome bridal gown to deal with but you'll muddle through it.
by anna at June 21, 2003 7:18 AM
Oh wait, it didn't disappear. It's back in a slightly revised form. Ah, the wonders of cut 'n paste.
by anna at June 21, 2003 7:20 AM