There is something magic about every wedding, though Britney Spears’ Las Vegas escapade just sprung to mind, which demolishes the universal applicability of my topic sentence. Okay, let’s make it: There is something magic about almost every wedding, including Brook and Corey’s here in Indiana yesterday (Brook is Laurel’s niece).
Laurel got to read a poem that she also had read at the wedding of Brook’s parents, Dee and Jerry, more years ago than any of them would want to remember. We worked on her delivery the night before. Laurel’s performance was great, in this drama coach’s entirely biased opinion.
The poem likens man and woman to kites and kite string holders. A kite has to be given enough loose string to fly, but you can’t let go of it entirely. Pretty apt. It’s got a line about Man that says “In the lust of his maleness,” which strikes the ear because it isn’t the sort of thing I’ve heard spoken at a wedding before. Acted out, yes, especially after the alcohol starts flowing at the reception.
Weddings feature some wonderfully mysterious rituals. I’m not sure what Corey is doing here, but it looks like the newly Mrs. Rieman is enjoying it. Guess he decided to take Laurel’s poem to heart.
The greatest miracle of this magical day was that I made it out onto the dance floor. By “made it out” I really mean “cajoled.” Since I don’t drink, I have a handicap that most of the dancing guys at the wedding lack. Namely, I’m fully aware of my dancing ineptitude. My sober mind observed that the number of men dancing at the reception bore a direct linear relationship to the number of beers consumed.
Laurel, however, got right out there when the music began to play with no cajoling and no alcohol. She is a dancing fool, whereas I’m a fool, dancing. Here she is with one of her grand-nieces, Mackenna, showing off her moves. I was happy watching, dancing voyeur that I am. Eventually, though, the Wedding Miracle came over me and I had an out of body experience, amazedly watching as if from a great height the physical Brian heave himself out of his seat and lurch onto the dance floor.
It wasn’t so bad once I realized that the lights were low and, given the quasi-rap music being played at the time, there was no way you could make a wrong move, since there were no right moves to make. When the dancing changed to the Macarena and similarly strongly-structured dances, naturally I fled the floor like a startled bunny.
Laurel and I had our own couple moment under the wedding arbor. Laurel looks great, as always. I look old. And this was before the dancing, which aged me even more. Well, I consider myself to be Laurel’s answer to plastic surgery and botox, since all she has to do is stand beside me looking as beautiful as she did yesterday, with me looking as Me as I always do, and a bystander can’t help but think: “Trophy wife.” Which she is.