You – my childhood playmate, my freshman dorm roommate, my long-distance best friend, or my not-so-current pal from 4-H Camp who still sends me sweet holiday cards with pictures from when we were nine – are getting married. Long ago, before you even found the ring, or the dress, or even or the guy or girl, you told me you wanted to get married, someday. I told you I didn’t think I would or that I wasn’t sure. Neither of us was surprised by the other. Then one day, years later, the phone call. Or the text. Or the picture text, first, followed by the phone call.
You tease, “Guess whaaaat?”
I play along, “Your dad finally took out his hair plugs?!”
“No!”
“Are you engaged?” and then we “ahhh” and “eeee” to confirm the obvious. I’ll ask you how it happened and you’ll spare me any raunchy or overly sappy details and then somewhere toward the end of the conversation, I’ll tell you, with more sincerity than I mustered to sign 8th grade yearbooks, that I am really happy for you. And unlike writing “so glad we had Alg I together” in Danny Sampson’s yearbook, this time I really mean it.
I am happy you are getting married. Sure, it’s partially because I’m not sure I ever will. And it’s always a little more fun to experience something big and somewhat scary vicariously. Especially when it involves up to a weeks worth of celebrations, Stretch Hummers, and six-tiered cakes – ordinarily guilt-inducing expenses. But also because I feel genuinely amazed by the thought of someone I learned to use a toilet next to taking a leap into a strange territory of adulthood we always wondered about.
It’s the same as when I went with you to get your tattoo. Even if I never end up inked myself, your tat is somehow a source of pride for me, too. I ask you intimate question about how the opposite sex has responded to it and will watch from afar as it fades and sags, ultimately holding up as a nostalgic mirror to the day I witnessed its colorful consummation.
In exchange for VIP access to your insider knowledge of marriage, I’ll do a few things as well. I’ll ask you questions about the hubby or wifey and I’ll offer you the same open ears you give me when I discuss my relationships, even if your’s may be more settled than the one I struck up two seconds ago with the barista in the muscle-T. I’ll never make you feel guilty for your choice, smother you in self-righteous pity, or make you pity me for not meeting the person worthy of having their initials embroidered on my bathrobe.
When the wedding planning gets underway, I might not ask you the same questions about swatches and thread count as the other more experienced members of the committee. In fact, I’ll probably say things that will rival the weird aunt who’s been known to give a spare tire as a wedding gift. But this doesn’t mean I don’t want you to call or email me the recent developments and calamities. I didn’t play Midge, Barbie’s perpetual bridesmaid in her multiple weddings to Ken, for nothing. And I’ll be the sort of renegade voice that won’t feel bad kindly telling your MIL to back off and let you do mismatched bridesmaids dresses, because it’s not your fault she blew her chance to have a snappy looking bridal party back in 1982.
Come the Big Day, I won’t be “The Single Friend”, and you won’t be “Bridezilla”. We’ll be ourselves, and I’ll be happy. Instead of dedicating seedlings from the Amazon to you and your man, I’ll buy you the best espresso machine on your registry, because it’s what you want. And if you ask me, I’ll deliver a speech that rivals our playtime Grammy Awards. Because you’re getting married and I think that’s swell. Just as long as there’s an open bar at the reception, and the DJ agrees to play “I’ll Make Love to You”.
For better or for worse.
What you wrote was beautiful. Once again, well said