...out of a Julia Roberts flick. A sandal-wearing priest holding up cheat sheets for the longer prayers. A wedding planner with a plastic smile and keen eyes sharpening after each detail. A tired cathedral stretching its muscles, waking up a coy sun for the ceremony. A dutiful best man with a sincere, "funny by being honest" speech. Three other groomsman who consumed enough alcohol to make Russian sailors jealous. Four gorgeous bridesmaids pretty enough to make the most flamboyantly gay man rethink his orientation. Two young people in love whose faces must hurt from holding a perpetual smile and saying "thank you" and "appreciate" repeatedly. And one smirking, joke-fishing groomsman who's glad and a little wistful.
This is my second wedding in two months. Perhaps there's something behind this whole commitment and marriage business. Maybe I'll see them less often as they pursue new adventures like antiquing, furniture shopping, worrying about enough time at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
Sometimes I think the rhythm of my life is this way - party, recovery, nostalgia, repeat. And I'm in the third stage now. I miss our good times - not just the wedding, but when he was just dating, we discussed girls in grand detail, struggled in school against white haired professors and shitty Ithaca weather, and sakebombed our way to our beloved Dryden bars. I know they'll have kids and I'll be an uncle, and there will be new memories yet to be remembered.
Still, I miss my friend. Thinking of all this makes my heart stretch like an overinflated balloon. Despite my self-impression of being toughened by three years of post-colleagiate experience, I'm a softie at heart. At least some things won't change.
What I was listening to while writing this post:
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