New Age wedding?

Somewhere along the path of life, you start missing forks in the road. It doesn’t occur to you at first. The first clue is probably when the Grammy, Emmy or Oscar awards come out one year and you don’t recognize half the names.

Fran calls me up and says she came across a recipe for a salsa cheesecake and is going to make it for me. I know the labor that goes into a cheesecake and can imagine the size of the string attached. I don’t have a clue what it is, but I steel myself for a kidney punch.

She finally gets around to it. “Diane’s daughter is getting married.” I let out an involuntary groan. “What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well she is one of my best friends. Stop making those noises.”

I can’t help it. Being invited to go to a wedding is on a par with being asked to help someone move, pet sit or apply an ointment. It’s a biggie. Lots of points, but not always worth it. I do some foot dragging to see if she’ll back off, but she doesn’t.

I’ve been to a few “adult weddings” in the past decade, but I haven’t been to any kiddie events in a while. They’re a little heavier than I care for. Or, so I thought.

The wedding was at Xavier University’s chapel. We’re seated and there’s a singer. The “Wedding Song.” Novel. Some things don’t change. The chapel has the acoustics of a locker room shower. I notice the crowd’s attire ranges from suits to t-shirt and jeans. I might expect the latter from youngsters, but very mature adults? I missed the fork, somewhere.

The deacon appears and calls the event to order. He’s in a white Friar Tuck robe and is a little thinner than John Pinet. He explains the difference between a deacon and a priest, tells us the story of his life and assures us about twenty-seven times that nothing really bad has happened at any of his weddings. I’ve never gone to one apprehensive about something “really bad” happening, but I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m waiting for pairs of ushers and bridesmaids to start the aisle walk, but players are generally milling around until they come to rest somewhere proximate to the altar. Like one of those hand games where you roll around the tiny silver balls until you get them to seat in the indentations. This aberration in protocol is someone offset by the program, which is reminiscent of a sporting event. It not only lists the players, but also their affiliation (friend of bride, cousin of groom, etc.). Saves a lot of whispered questions. Now this is progress. The couple lists their 18-month old daughter as a flower girl. The times they are a changin’.

There is a recognizable bridal walk, so we seem back on track. Except, the deacon lards the proceedings with a lot of bad jokes and stories that lack punchlines and relevance. He says his wife is there to keep him from getting too far off track and introduces her in the audience. She stands and takes a bow. Bizarre. He doesn’t conduct a mass, but his ramblings take us the far side of an hour. People file out willy nilly, as opposed to the ushers peeling off one row at a time. We head for the reception.

There is no reception line. Instead, after most have populated the room, there’s an announcement of the arrival of the bridal party. The DJ plays the theme from “Top Gun” and the party dances in as couples, all with Tom Cruise sunglasses. If there is a significance, no one seems to know what it is.

There’s a buffet dinner. We sit with friends of Fran’s, their offspring and their offspring’s dates. Looks like a Goth convention. The DJ launches into an odd mix of disco and archaic country. Donna Summer, meet Buck Owens.

Fran and her friend decide to wander around and find other acquaintances. She tells me I should feel free to stay put. In other words, sit there and don’t bother anyone. Not likely. This crowd has too much potential.

It doesn’t take long to ferret out Ray, who looks like a short Wilford Brimley and is brimming with mischief. He owns the FBN Construction Company, which is primarily him. FBN stands for Fly-By-Night. Yes, I have the right guy. I grab a pitcher of beer and we retreat to a corner where Ray entertains with some great stories.

Somewhere along the line, Shawna joins us. She’s a strapping lass who’s well into her cups and is having some trouble wearing her dress. Ray seems to be making an effort to overlook this. I’m more inclined to look.

Ray excuses himself to go to the rest room with one of the more banal explanations, but Shawna has some interesting stories of her own. Someone taps me on the shoulder, but I’m rapt. “They’re cutting the cake,” I hear Fran say.

“Fine, get me a piece.”

“I thought that’s what you were trying to do.” Uh oh.

I’m towed over to the cake table. It would be too much to expect that one of the newly wedded wouldn’t try the mooshing the cake in the face trick. Why wouldn’t I think it would go beyond that? It almost turned into a variation of mud wrestling. Classy.

Faces are wiped and the DJ launches into “Rocky Top” and “The Chicken Dance.” Some traditions should die. Fran says it’s all in good fun and tries to goad me onto the dance floor. Not a chance. She joins her friends.

I find Ray. We grab a couple pitchers of beer, climb up to a balcony and do some prime people watching. When people are searching a room, they seldom look up. So, I figure I’m pretty safe up here. I figure wrong.

“What are you doing?” I answer her. “What?” I answer again. “Let some of the air out of your tongue and try that again. Better yet, give me the car keys.”

It had been a while since I’d been lured to a wedding. It’ll be a while before it happens again.