A man in love is incomplete until he is married. Then he's finished.
~Zsa Zsa Gabor
A couple of Sundays ago, my betrothed and I married. The word betrothed is a synonym for "promised," and the first thing she made me promise was not to write about the wedding. But I wouldn't dream of writing about the wedding, anyway, and here's why: You don't reach my age without having sat through quite a number of these ceremonies. And the truth is, they're pretty predictable--I mean, how often does a bride or groom say, "I don't?" Oh, there are little surprises, sure, like the fact that our so-called "unity candle" kept going out. But I can't write about that.
When it comes to words, like "wedding," I am something of a strict constructionist; I construe the meaning narrowly to mean the ceremony itself. The rest of the experience, however, is fair game as far as I'm concerned.
For example, there is the matter of the bagpiper. A dear friend of my beloved is married to one of the best pipers in this region. This is terrific, because there is nothing more splendid than to be led into a momentous event (historically, it should be noted, a battle) by the skirl of the pipes. This is especially true if your name is "North." The ancestral home of Clan North was a small island some distance north--what else?--of Scotland's Outer Hebrides. The Norths were a clan of warrior scribes who believed passionately that the pen is mightier than the sword. This belief was proven utterly and tragically incorrect one night, centuries ago, when they were virtually wiped out by a coalition of other Scottish clans because the Norths had made such a nuisance of themselves writing scurrilous screeds about their neighbors. The only survivors were my distant relatives, who'd somehow got wind of the impending attack and hid all night in a cave. It took some effort on my part to get our piper to substitute the sprightly "March of the Kings" as my processional instead of his first choice, the mournful "Cowards of Clan North."
But I digress. The point is that the lady of my life had made it abundantly clear that while it was fine for the groom to be piped in, she absolutely, positively did NOT want bagpipes for her own processional. She is English after all and, given the historic antipathy of her countrymen for the Scots, and vice versa, I made no attempt to dissuade her. Thus it was that I took it as an ominous portent when, after the March of Kings concluded and I took my place beside the minister, my bride arrived and hissed over her splendid bouquet, "How come the piper stopped?!"
I should have anticipated this, I suppose, because the truth is she had been behaving strangely for some months prior to the actual event. I understand this. You may have read that scientists have discovered a rogue gene in the DNA of every woman on earth that lies dormant until some imbecile, like me, asks her to marry him and she, despite the frantic warnings of her closest friends and all the people who know him well, consents. Suddenly, this bit of DNA--known to genetic researchers by its code: CB-1, for "one crazy bride"--clicks on and a complete stranger explodes from the woman with whom you thought you wanted to spend the rest of your life. It's like those fang-toothed creatures that burst out of the chests of infected astronauts in the movie Aliens.
This gene manifests itself in myriad ways, but we'll explore just one: wedding cake madness. Somebody tell me what the big deal is about the wedding cake. This is late summer. Wouldn't you think a nice organic, native blackberry and apple crumble would suffice? But no. The bride calls me from the city to say she's found the perfect wedding cake. It will be constructed in tiers by a really famous French bakery. But do I make a fuss? Of course not. That's because I had by then come to understand that my role in the wedding could be summarized in six words: Shut Up, Show Up, Pay Up. This last point was made clear when, almost as an afterthought, she mentioned what the cake would cost. I hung up and envisioned it slathered not in icing but in hundred dollar bills.
But honestly, the wedding was great. It was casual, a summer beach party held on a grassy terrace overlooking the water. The weather was splendid--which was mighty lucky, as there was no Plan B in case of rain. Everyone in the neighborhood pitched in, contributing tables and chairs, table cloths, plates and glasses, sun umbrellas, and more. The music was local and live. The food was amazing. We'd told our friends--both of mine and ninety-eight of hers--to make a favorite pot luck dish as a wedding gift that could be enjoyed by everyone who attended, and they outdid themselves. Or so we're told, because by the time we'd finished greeting everyone, the food was gone. Worse, most of the wine was, too. And so was the cake.
The only real blemish on the day was--and this will come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog--my friend Bad Michael. In a moment of madness, I'd asked him to be my "Worst Man," and he took the task to heart. After a lyrical paean to the bride--who, it must be said, was (and is) stunningly beautiful, gracious, and talented--he seemed to go off the rails, launching into a vicious roast of the groom. This went on for some time, to the very great amusement of (almost) everyone.
Afterward, my sainted mother approached me and plucked at my elbow. I leaned down and she whispered, "Who WAS that guy?!"
I thought, thank goodness for moms: they never stop thinking you're terrific.
Then she said, "Boy, he sure has your number," and started laughing uncontrollably.
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