The worst wedding I ever attended wasn't my own. It was right after my would-be big day. I'd taken the liberty of writing the sermon since the preacher who had been made clergy through an ad in the back of Rolling Stone wasn't going to, and I found myself leaning toward a lot of Shakespearean cliche and yawn-inducing sentiments about forever and ever. He had a book of ceremonies he'd delivered before, but I didn't like any of them as they were all too sappy and way too heavy-handed with the Kahil Gibran, we are trees growing together/apart/ winds dance between us -- you get the idea. Mine wasn't terrible, but it certainly wasn't my most convincing work of fiction, and the best thing you could say about it was that the whole thing came in under ten minutes which was good because Mr. Rolling Stone forgot to tell the congregation to sit down. The wedding after that one was the worst one -- my then-beloved's ex-fiance and her new husband, a Japanese man named Aki who broke out in huge ringworm-like sores when he drank which was often had their ceremony a few months later. To add to the incestous horror, I had dated the bride's brother, who was also there. Who says I don't know how to have a good time?
So I sat in the pew, feeling fat and stupid and sexless, wishing myself dead, having made a wrong turn myself and already knowing it. I'd picked out a shapeless royal blue tent of a dress with a Peter Pan collar and the dress kept sliding off my shoulders. I sat there, sick dying smile plastered to my face, when the same preacher began reading the vows. The vows that I had written, word for dumbass word. I had known the bride a little bit, a quiet beautiful woman who kept to herself, one of those women that men love more for what she doesn't say than what she does. By the reception, I felt ready for obliteration as her brother skulked around, drinking like a fiend and the groom had already broken out in the ringworm marks. A table full of dullards said how wonderful they thought the vows were, how well-written. The bride told us that it was a tradition in his family for every groom to drink until he couldn't stand at the reception, and that the bride's wedding night was spent making sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. It wasn't the ending I would have chosen for the night, but hey, I'd already gotten to write a lot of the script.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"How strange when an illusion dies. It's as though you've lost a child. " Judy Garland
Drinking music suggestion: The Velvet Underground at Max's Kansas City -- Velvet Underground
Benedictions and Maledictions