Weddings

Prologue:
L.A. Story used to be one of my favorite movies. There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is trying to win back the affection of a recent ex-girlfriend, running around outside her house from window to window. In his hand is a book. He stops outside one of the windows and excitedly says, "Let me read to you from this book of poems! 'Oh, pointy bird, oh, pointy pointy!'" It makes me laugh every time.

•  

The last wedding I attended was an intimate affair. The room was small. The chairs were set an inch apart from each other. By the time my wife and I arrived, seating was limited. We sat in the second to last row, sandwiched between other wedding goers.

When the we-are-gathered-here-today started, I had on my wedding face. Mouth stern. Eyes soft and pleading-like. Face serious. No big deal. I knew I wouldn't cry; weddings don't affect me that way. I might have been sweating in places that felt unnatural, but I was going to make it. I was attentive. I was engaged. My wife, sitting very closely beside me, seemed to be in the same place.

We were welcomed. There was prayer. Everything was going really well...until the woman officiating announced that the bride's sister wanted to read from a book of poems.

Oh, holy mother of hell.

I could feel it, welling from a place deep inside of me; so deep I didn't think to put it in check.

The sister started reading, from the book of poems, and son-of-a-bitch if she didn't mention something about a goddamn bird.

You have got to be kidding me!

My body started shaking. I looked into my lap. I snorted. I looked over at my wife. Big mistake. She, too, knew all about the pointy bird.

We were cooked. Done for. Over.

Her shaking body mimicked my own. Together, we laughed into each other like two lunatics, completely mad from something so unbelievably hysterical that nothing could bring us back. Tears leapt from my eyes. My stomach hurt. Keeping it inside was proving to be almost too much. I lost track of what was going on. The people around us were looking at us like we'd farted. They crinkled their noses, tsk-tsked us by shaking their heads, kicked us off their list of respectable human beings.

Come on, people. Why do weddings always have to be so serious? Who says love can't be silly and strange and comical instead of riding-white-horses-on-the-beach, making-love-by-the-candle-light romantic? Because if that's your idea of love, you're fucked. Love is sloppy and weird and hysterical and cute and overwhelming and normal and warm and running-down-your-leg fantastic! This whole notion that weddings have to be this showy, serious event is killing me.

When the day comes that I get to marry my wife, I will cry, but not because I'm taking it too seriously. It will be the direct result of finally being able to marry the person I love. No matter, really, because after Steve is done reading from his book of poems, there won't be a dry eye in the house.