The handshake at the altar
I met Brett over 9 years ago while on our first jobs in Columbus, Ohio. An English bloke with good looks and a tolerance for beer. We found ourselves commiserating over our careers with staggering ease. I left the job a few years into it and headed back to Cincinnati where we stayed in touch, keeping tab, sharing fonts, a rafting trip, occasional visit and promises to hang out more.
Fast forward to now, where I came to his wedding not knowing a soul or his bride. It’s always strange going to events alone, but in the scheme of things, it’s not often that you get so many family and friends together in jovial… spirits.
I’ve never been to a Catholic wedding, but I always heard about the sitting down and standing up. Luckily, I found out later, that they didn’t do Mass, so I was spared a lot of the sitting down and standing up.
I felt awkward when everyone around me would sing along to the songs or spit a verse back from outta nowhere. I figure it’s like the folks that know the Rocky Horror Picture Show inside and out —Just takes a rabid passion and some studying..
The reception was fattening. I didn’t do the chicken dance, in fact, there was none of that. I didn’t jump into the chorus line of kicks while the dj spun Frank singing NY NY. I will admit though, at loud volumes, the hairs on my forearms react to the last “Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese little town blues…”
Christine found me while making the rounds at the reception. I suppose I’m an easy one to spot. There was the dawn of recognition and a hug.
I feared I wouldn’t get to talk to her much, but I closed out the impromptu bar in the hotel lobby chatting with her and her new husband to the cusp of dawn. She’s good people, and I’m glad I came. Now I just need to visit more.