SAN DIEGO, Calif. — Marriage is like a deadly disease: You don’t think it can happen to you until it takes somebody you care about.
And after attending the first marriage of a high school chum, only three things are certain: I’m a guy, I wouldn’t understand and I’m a Dead Bachelor Walking.
Chris and I came up through the high school and junior college ranks together with a group of about 10 funny, cynical, loud friends called simply the Group. His marriage signaled the first official Bachelor Mortality Check, whether we realized it or not. If a nice guy like Chris could get himself married, what would protect the rest of us?
So I prepared a eulogy for the occasion:
We gather here to honor one of us fallen in battle. No more random belching. No more terrorizing small animals with projectiles. No more late-night bad movie marathons. Rest in peace, Christopher Lee.
But a golden opportunity came my way during the day prior to the wedding. I got a chance to see the stresses and worries of marriage, but from the female side.
THE DAY BEFORE
Sara, Chris’ fiancee, had already proven herself a funny, sweet and tough woman during the year or so she and Chris were dating. The fact she was willing to take the married name of Sara Lee proved that.
But like any bride, she was stressing out in the hours prior to the wedding, which would be held at her house. Luckily, the customary female wedding braintrust — her mother, Chris’ mother and sister, and our mutual friend Lisa — was on hand to do most of the worrying for her.
Since I was staying at the house that weekend, I got to see them worry. About fitting six tables into the living room. About preparing the programs. About how the chairs looked.
It ocurred to me that guys never worry about these types of things, mostly because women let them know it’s not their job to worry.
“I didn’t worry about anything at my wedding,” Chris’ brother-in-law told me with a smile. “They told me where to be and what to wear and they took care of the rest.”
Tell me about it. To my male eyes the arrangement was coming together nicely. Chris and Sara would be married in the backyard, overlooking a mountainside, on a stage mounted atop the jacuzzi and reinforced with several pieces of plywood.
The deck and the balcony of the house were lined with yellow christmas lights, designed to give the evening afterparty a little pizazz. And the seats were placed around the stage, making this nicer than any church wedding I’d ever been to. Except to Lisa.
“The seats are all wrong,” she said. “They’re dirty.”
A quick look confirmed Lisa’s maternal instincts had kicked in. If the seats were dirty, it was in that way that only your mom could spot the tiniest crumb on your floor and pronounce the whole room a mess.
“What’s wrong? They’re all upright,” I said. “And nobody’s going to look at the seats.”
That got me a stern look. You’d think I’d have asked her on a date.
“You’re a guy,” she said after a tense second. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Sarah and her mother nodded silently.
Later, there was the matter of the Kisses bags, the little bundles of Hershey’s chocolates wrapped in some fishnet-like material. We had to have one bag for each of the 50 or so guests. This would take time, so I was drafted into helping.
“Why don’t we just put all the Kisses in a big fishbowl or something and let people pick at it as they walk by?” I asked Chris’ sister.
She didn’t even bother to say it, just look it: You’re a guy. You wouldn’t understand.
THE CEREMONY
I spent Friday in Tijuana, in another interesting visit with my family (and that's another story, believe me), so I didn't take part in the rehearsal dinner Friday night. Subsequently, when I returned to Sara's house two hours before showtime, I knew less about my role at the wedding than the guests. At least they had programs.
All Chris told me was that I was escorting his mother all of the four steps from the kitchen to her seat by the stage, which by now was presumably up to Lisa's high chair standards. Of course, I had no idea where I'd be sitting, where the Group was sitting, and what I was supposed to do with Chris' mom after walking her to her seat. And I needed a shower. You would too, if you rode the Trolley.
The Group arrived maybe 30 minutes before the ceremony, as I was rushing between the bathroom on the bottom floor and my room on the second floor getting dressed and ready. And they were pissed at me. They didn't know I'd been staying at Sara's, thanks to the argument between my mom and I.
"Come over here," Curtis said, in his best I'm-a-pissed-off-Cop-after-uppity-Mexicans voice. And he spoke for the rest of the gang on this one.
I tried to explain myself to them after finally getting my suit on. There were 20 minutes left. Most of the anger on their part was for not telling them where I was, hence making them worry about finding me in some ditch that weekend. I apologized profusely and was about to search for Chris' mom when she snuck up on me and handed me a camera. I was to shoot the wedding or be shot after it.
Besides not being able to figure out how to focus the damn thing, she wouldn't say what I was doing. Which led to the following exchange:
ME:Mrs. Lee, where do I sit after I walk you?
MRS. LEE: (to a friend) you sit here (gesturing to a seat near her)
ME: Mrs.--
MRS. LEE: And James' parents sit here (gesturing to two seats behind her)
ME: Umm...
MRS. LEE: Go get James' parents, would you?
ME: (walking off to do her bidding)
About two minutes before the wedding, the Group found seats to the left of the stage, and I was told to walk Mrs. Lee to the stage, then duck out and make like a photojournalist. About 10 seconds later, she mentioned we were the first two people in the wedding procession. Nothing like having good preparation time.
Four awkward steps to the stage and a bad dash backstage later, I found myself on the patio balcony, ready to shoot.
The hired-hand photographer didn't make things any easier. You'd think I was trying to scoop him on Loch Ness pictures, he was moving me out of the shot. I did get one nice picture of the happy couple standing just in between the columns, with the priest reading something or other. You know, your classical wedding picture. I almost had a peach of a shot of them walking off the stage after I Do-ing each other, if it wasn't for Paparazzi. So Chris & Sara, it's not my fault if the pictures suck.
But all that didn't matter maybe 10 seconds later. Chris and Sara walked out of the ceremony, into the dining room, hugged each other, started hugging some of the guests ... and then Chris started crying. I mean, tearing up and everything. No doubt it hit him right there, that he'd finally gone and done it. It was over. Rather, it was just beginning. And maybe right then it hit me, too.
The rest of the evening sped by gloriously. They cleared out the stage and got the traditional dances underway: First, Parents', Dollar, etc. Meanwhile, I worked up enough nerve to ask Chris' cousin Becky - dyed purple hair, pixie eyes and a woman I'd told anybody who would listen had become beautiful in the three years since I'd seen her last - to dance. Twice. By some divine providence - or maybe Chris just set me up - she caught the bouquet and I caught the garter. Which meant I got to slide it up her leg. With my teeth. And I used to diss weddings?
The weirdest part, of course, were the goodbyes. For the first time, "heading home" meant leaving San Diego again. And after all is said and done (and they'll never admit it), the Group misses me as much as I miss them. Who else do they pick on? But somewhere in the air back to St. Louis the next morning, I started thinking ... what kind of wedding would I like to have?
And that's maybe the best gift Chris could've given me on his way out of bachelorhood. Rest in peace, Christopher Lee.