This is What Happens When I Best Man a Wedding

Yes, I just used “Best Man” as a verb in the title of this post. It’s a thing now, and you’re welcome.

So. After throwing an epic three-night, thirteen-man bachelor party at a rented house in Vermont last fall (the details of which I can’t get into for legal reasons), getting fitted for a tux while awkwardly asking the salesman, “So, what’s your perspiration policy?” (he just looked at me weird and said, “We clean them”), and sneaking my way into my now-sister’s bachelorette party in December by flashing everyone with my GC (Giant Co.. Gay Card) – my brother got married a few weeks ago. And! It was the best day.

Like, ever.

The fun started the night before at the rehearsal, where this conversation took place between two bridesmaids (whom I will refer to as Hilary and Amy) and myself:

  • Nic: Hey Hilary, wanna hear something hilarious? My aunt told my stepmom earlier that she thought I “had eyes for you.”
  • Hilary: Ha! Wait. Your aunt doesn’t know you’re gay?
  • Nic: I mean, it’s not like I hide it. I just don’t think she realizes that gay people exist in real, everyday life. Like, she’ll probably find out about me when we’re at my wedding.
  • Amy (joining the conversation): Oh hey, you have one too?!
  • Nic: What? No. I don’t. I’m not getting married. [Laughs uncomfortably.] I mean, I am getting married. I hope. Eventually. Just not any time soon. Gotta find the right guy first. All the ones I meet seem to fall short in one way or another, and I’m at the point where’s it’s like, I’m not in a rush to meet The One anymore, because where’s the fun in that? Plus I don’t wanna settle for less, y’know?
  • Amy (pointing to my left ear): I was talking about your cartilage piercing.

So that was awesome.

The ceremony the next day was also awesome, although there was a minor debacle when I went to deliver flowers to the bride in her dressing room and was cornered by the photographer, who asked to borrow the rings – allegedly for the purposes of taking artful pictures, but probably more so because she gets some kind of twisted joy out of making other people anxious – and then disappeared.

After five minutes passed, I started slightly freaking out at the realization that it was twenty minutes to showtime and my brother was waiting for me. So I bid adieu to the bridal party and luckily was able to find the photographer in a hallway, regain possession of the rings, and step outside to get back to the main church.

Except now it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I was like, “SHIT.” I went back inside and asked the photographer if there was an indoor route to the church that I didn’t know about and she was all, “I dunno.” So then I was like, “SHIT,” again, and just decided to run the few steps there.

And then, as I was approaching the entrance to the church, I slipped.

AND I PLUMMETED.

I was clearly touched by an angel, though, because I managed to make my hands hit the ground first. So it mostly just looked like I was doing a spontaneous and highly awkward military pushup (on a rainy church sidewalk, in a tuxedo) for a second. I also managed to quickly retrieve the rings (which, by the way, had also plummeted and were dangerously close to a sewer… I know. Can you IMAGINE?) and put them safely in my pocket.

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One would never know I had just almost ruined the entire wedding (and my ruggedly handsome face) with a single plunge.

And after that, everything went smoothly.

I pranced into the reception to En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” while the Maid of Honor whipped me (literally), I rocked the Best Man speech (by “rocked,” I mean I got up in front of everyone and went on a long-winded verbal tangent about how my brother is a guy who exemplifies love and I am a guy who spent most of the nineties making Mariah Carey-themed scrapbooks), and I made sure everyone got really, really drunk – which, given our network of friends and family, didn’t actually require too much effort on my part, but still.

The whole thing was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that make you stand back, look at your life, and say, “Holy shit. This is it. This is what matters.” It’s like, we can get so caught up in our daily routines – coffee, soul-sucking jobs, petty arguments, super important life-or-fucking-death (just kidding, I mean petty again) arguments, social media, Mariah Carey’s mental health (okay, maybe that’s just me?), the fucking weather, etc. – that it’s easy to start believing that the stuff that doesn’t matter, matters. But then something reminds you that it doesn’t.

Over time, I’ve found that meditation and books and — frankly — wine are good at helping me get to that place of transcending the bullshit. Celebration and love and family are even better.

And Best Man-ing is, of course, the best.

 

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Weddings and My Uncanny Ability to Make Them All About Me (In My Head)

I’ve been going to a lot of weddings lately – four in the past five months, actually. So according to this precedent, I only get to enjoy one out of every five months wedding-free, which means that I can only have a maximum of three months off of weddings per year – and frankly, that doesn’t seem like enough.

But it’s totally fine, because I secretly love weddings — for me, they’re kind of like cheesecakes.

What I mean: They are amazing at the time of enjoyment, but I typically end up feeling fat and unloved afterwards.

But again, it’s totally fine. They’re worth the extra calories — because what could be better than seeing your friends happy and in love? (I feel like the answer to this is actually being happy and in love, but I guess I was being rhetorical.)

I do have to confess, though, that during the ceremonies, I always stress over the following things:

  • Am I sitting in an okay area? Whose side am I on? Are sides even a thing anymore? Am I too close to the front? Holy CRAP what if I’m sitting in, like, the bride’s grandmother’s cousin’s seat?!

Or if I’ve chosen to avoid the above anxiety by sitting all the way in the back, then this happens:

  • Why are there two rows between me and the next closest-to-the-front person? Is filling up the seats from front to back, in order, a commonly-known wedding rule that I’m currently breaking? Are people looking at me like, “Who is that guy anti-socially sequestering himself back there like the Hunchback of Notre Dame?”

(Note: I’ve never actually seen or read The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but he was a fugly guy who sequestered himself in cavernous areas, right?)

More random thoughts:

  • Oh my God, what if I accidentally “speak now”?!
  • I totally saw the Maid of Honor give me a weird look as she walked down the aisle. I’m DEFINITELY sitting in the bride’s grandmother’s cousin’s seat!

It’s usually somewhere around that last bullet point when I realize that nobody is even noticing me at all – because it’s not my wedding, and the bride’s grandmother’s cousin is busy being all like, “I’m so happy for my cousin’s granddaughter! Am I sitting in an okay seat?” and the Maid of Honor is busy being all like, “I really hope I don’t trip,” and the bride and groom are busy being all like, “WHOA. WE’RE GETTING MARRIED RIGHT NOW.”

And then the reception happens, and I always have the best time ever.

Because who doesn’t love a good cheesecake?

Remember this? Yeah, I think there was a wedding happening that day. Or something. All I remember is my inner dialogue.

Remember this? Yeah, I think there was a wedding happening that day. Or something. Clearly, all I really remember is my inner dialogue.

 

That Time I Fell in Love with a Stranger (Again)

As you may or may not already know, I kind of have this problem where my main goal in life is to find and wed the real-life gay version of Mad Men lothario Don Draper — despite the fact that I’m fairly certain he doesn’t actually exist.

Or at least I was fairly certain that he doesn’t actually exist until last week when my friend Kendra and I totally ran into him on the ice rink in Rockefeller Center and subsequently discovered that he is a closet Mariah Carey fan with a really nice neck who enjoys bopping to Christmas carols.

Allow me to explain.

Kendra and I were lucky enough to make it onto the guest list for the taping of Mariah’s Christmas at Rockefeller Center performances last Tuesday, and that is where we discovered Don Draper Guy II. (For those who don’t already know: the original Don Draper Guy.)

Mariah is a deity. A blurry deity, but still a deity.

                            Mariah is a deity. A blurry deity, but still a deity.

Don Draper Guy II (hereinafter referred to as DDGII) first caught my eye because of his tall height, dark brown hair, and distinguished facial features that revealed absolutely nothing about his age. (Seriously –  we couldn’t tell if he was 19 or 43. We ultimately settled on a hypothesis of about 27, but really remained clueless throughout the evening. And to this day, for that matter.)

What really won me over, though, was his hot and manly Draper-esque neck.

Isn’t it crazy how man-necks can be so sexy sometimes? No? I have a weird fetish for necks? Stop judging me! You’re the one who reads blogs written by neck-fetish-harboring freaks with self-esteem issues. Weirdo.

Anyway, Kendra was similarly smitten with DDGII, so our entire evening pretty much evolved into a really intense game of Gay, Straight, or European? that Kendra seemed to keep winning at because of DDGII’s masculine demeanor. But then we’d both remember that we were at a Mariah Carey show and suddenly I would be back in the game.

Another game we played was Creepily Stalk the Hot Guy, at which I’m pretty much an expert by now.

In our efforts to keep tabs on DDGII, we:

  • risked our lives at a crosswalk,
  • positioned ourselves at a spot in the crowd that had a slightly obstructed view of Mariah (but a perfectly framed view of DDGII’s neck), and
  • did a few other things that I’m not proud of and refuse to divulge publicly.

As Mariah was about to appear onstage, I longed to initiate conversation with him – both to mitigate the creepiness of my stalking and also to get the ball rolling on our wedding preparations (I had some great ideas involving September 2013, swans, and Maine that I wanted to run by him).

Then I got all depressed because I realized that Kendra and I still didn’t have a clear winner in our game of Gay, Straight, or European? and I was starting to lose hope.

And then he started enthusiastically rocking out to Mariah’s holiday gem “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

Score!

Needless to say, I interpreted DDGII’s bopping as conclusive evidence of his open gayness. And also as confirmation of the fact that we have “mutual interests.”

And also as his acceptance of my whole marriage proposal/wedding suggestion.

Nic. DDGII. September 2013. Swans. Maine.

Get ready, y’all.

P.S. I should clarify that Kendra and I never actually had a real conversation with DDGII. Though he did throw a chuckle her way at one point in the evening.

P.P.S. It just occurred to me that DDGII chuckled only at Kendra and not me. He’s totally straight, I’m fat, and the wedding’s off. DAMMIT!

 

Facebook Promotes Obesity, and I Don’t Appreciate It

I woke up this morning and realized that there exists a very unfortunate correlation between my eating habits and the marital statuses of my Facebook friends.

It kind of goes like this:

  • Engaged friends: sugary cereal with whole milk.
  • Married friends: burrito bowl from Chipotle.
  • Friends who just got engaged this week: entire box of Oreos.
  • Friends who just got married this week: multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, various flavors.
  • Friends who just got married this week and have already posted photos from the wedding: all of the above.
  • Ex-boyfriends who are now in relationships: all of the above plus a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese, loaf of cinnamon swirl bread, entire tube of unbaked cookie dough, and the salt of my tears.

Thanks for the double chin, Zuckerberg.

Side note: I am still seeing [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and he’s still awesome. But – contrary to what I’d secretly hoped – this post seems to suggest that his presence in my life hasn’t obviated my extreme need for therapy, so I guess I’ll have to get on that soon.

         Totally unrelated: My mom’s dog in his new winter coat. You’re Welcome.

 

Happy Friday!

 

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