They say a cynic is nothing but a romantic who’s been disappointed once too often – could be.
Just got back from the wedding of a former underling. A very big, very splashy, very expensive wedding. There was a room where we nibbled on all kinds of expensive appetizers (sushi and lamb and scallops and veal and I don’t know what all) while availing ourselves of the open bar – before the sitdown luncheon for all 150 of us happy revelers. (Well, 149 happy revelers and yours truly – I didn’t know a fucking soul there. Well, one woman I’d met a couple of years ago – I went up and introduced myself and explained where we’d met – she looked down her nose at me and said, “yeah, you look a little familiar” – her boyfriend then came up and looked down his nose at me and said “nope, no recollection of that at all.” Well fuck you two very much.)
Didn’t know a soul – the band (which wasn’t bad, as wedding bands go) was playing loudly enough you had to shout to talk to anyone further away than the person immediately next to you – I sat next to a guy who was seriously cruising for Ms. Right, so he kept popping up and disappearing to go hit on someone else – apparently traumatized that his old friend (the groom) had beaten him to the altar.
But it was important to the bride that I be there, and I was there.
Okay – here’s the thing. The bride is in her early 30s, and her biological clock ain’t just a-tickin’, it is tolling with deep, loud, resonant “bongs” that can be heard from three counties over. About two years ago, she set out to find a husband so she could proceed to start having kids. She did the online dating thing, and eventually found this guy, who, according to the best man’s toast, didn’t go on his first date till he was in his 30s. (He’s now, I don’t know, mid to late 30s.)
So we’re at this big fancy wedding, with ice sculptures and white-gloved servers who would come and refold your napkin if you left it at your plate for more than 30 seconds, the bride stuffed into her white gown and the groom and best man wearing fucking tail coats, and a serious shitload of money is being spent, and the rituals are being observed, and she’s being welcomed into his family, and he’s being welcomed into hers – and all I can think is, “What is this crap? He’s just the fucking sperm donor.”
BTW – I’m pretty damn sure I couldn’t have been the only Doper there. Geeks out the wazoo – some with more social skills than others. I spent about five minutes amusing myself with the fantasy of going to each of the three tables where the happy couples’ friends had been placed (and I’m as nerdy as the rest of them and belonged equally in this ghetto of geekdom) and saying, “Do the words ‘Hi Opal’ mean anything to anyone?” If you were there – I was wearing the blue flowered dress and the pink sweater.
Hope this is pitular enought – I don’t usually even read in the Pit, and this is my first thread here.