Whitebread Wedding

Last Saturday I went to my daughter-in law's sister's wedding. This is actually a lie because my son is not married to his wonderful, beautiful partner of 11 years even though he and she are raising 3 kids and have been faithful to each other for longer than I ever managed. Why I care about this marriage thing is puzzling to my friends, but apparently I do.

Speaking of "I do", the wedding in the main went off well. The bride, Erica, looked properly gorgeous and radiant, the groom, Matt, looked substantial and responsible, and my daughter-in-law Nicole outshone everyone there except Kyly, my 6-year-old granddaughter, a regal and sparkling flower girl. However, because I cannot, like George, tell a lie on my blog (something about slamming into a cherry tree, I think), I must fess up to a few somewhat disturbing observations.

First, although the main event was held in a picturesque (meaning VERY old) Congregational Church, apparently the 18th century architect didn't include air-conditioning in his blueprint and nobody in the 220 years since thought that this improvement might be a good idea. God expressed his opinion of Congregationalists by sending down to us the hottest day of the summer. And I, like an idiot, was in a suit. Since almost everyone there was White and Anglo-Saxon, all the men were in suits, and sweltering. I'd love to find the man who came up with the concept of "suit", I have a hot poker I'd like him to meet.

My next problem was with the minister, or rather with her choice of wedding text. She seemed to believe that the ceremony was her chance to spew out her weekly allotment of fire and brimstone. She went into some graphic detail on what level of perdition the couple would find themselves if they broke the rules of behavior that she quoted from Paul in some letter or other. By the time they said their vows I think they were actually cowering at the altar. This whole mishigoss (that's Congregationalist slang) took forever as the minister rambled on for 45 minutes. Yeah, I timed it, you would too if your suit were soaking up several gallons of moisture.

On to the reception. On the way my wife found an enclosure in the invitation detailing the particulars of the romance between the bride and groom. Since it had taken over a decade for true romance to bloom, it took 20 minutes to read this novella. By the time we arrived at the reception I had way more information than I will ever need about those two. Worse yet, I know I'll hear it several times more at future family gatherings. It's enough to make me re-evaluate the whole romantic process. (Never, not me).

One more thing, you will remember that everyone there was WASP. This made the dancefloor a pathetic scene. It's been pointed out before, but it is a solid truth that White people CAN'T DANCE. And what's the deal that Caucasians are compelled to play YMCA at their weddings. Jews carry the couple around in the air in a chair, Russians kick out their feet squatting down doing the Kazatska (sp?), Germans kick up their legs while wearing lederhosen, but I'll never understand the mystique of jumping around while your body spells out the letters of an evangelical religious organization. YMCA-- I think I prefer the Chicken Dance.

I think I'll skip further commentary, although I should mention that the food was delicious and plentiful (the caterers were probably Jewish). I'm probably relegated to family outlaw status for what I've already written, anyway. It's a position with which I'm very familiar, having occupied it ever since I've had a family.

Here's to the bride and groom, may they muddle through their lives successfully, and end up smiling through it all.

Later.