Siddity in the City

The second half of my East-side adventure. BFF’s wedding.

Cue sap.

For all the smack I talk on this blog, about life’s petty inconveniences, minor obstacles, impending poverty and the closetular doom that entails, you should know that I believe in good fortune, in the power of love, in the evidence of goodness and grace, all around, if only you know where to look. If you can recognize these things when they cross your path–and they do, every day of your life–then you are genuinely blessed.

I do recognize them, and frequently give silent thanks to the universe several times per day, every day, for I know without question that I am a woman blessed.

It is evident in the family I was fortunate to be born to, and in the friendships that I have cultivated these last dozen years. Faults and foibles notwithstanding, they have all given me their experiences, their lessons–even those I’d rather not have learned quite so harshly–and, their love.

Not least of those who have touched my life is a woman I consider to be my best friend, certainly the friend I’ve had the longest, over years and great distance, and with whom I feel at ease in an inexplicable way.

My best friend was married yesterday, to a man who is as worthy of her as she is him, and their phenomenal love, a shining, enveloping thing, reminded me for the hundred-thousandth time to be grateful for the grace that surrounds us.

They had a rocky beginning. She met her husband at work. At the time, she was seeing someone who, I say with complete confidence, was not worthy of her, despite that man’s impressive personal achievements and lofty aspirations. And so, she and her now-husband began simply as friends.

Once she was free to pursue something more, now-husband presented a bit of a challenge. He was good, and funny, and brilliant. These things she knew. He was also, bless him, a bit absent-minded, as the brilliant tend to be. On one of their first dates, he tried to woo her with a fancy-pants dinner, forgetting his wallet, so she ended up footing that bill. Later, in an effort to make that up to her with a fancy-pants home cooked meal, he brought her and his pricey groceries home to a dark apartment, for he had forgotten to pay his electric bill for a few months and the utility company had chosen that very day to cut him off.

For many women, that later date would have signaled the end if the first hadn’t. Fortunately, they had a foundation of friendship, and she recognized a keeper when she spotted one. Small miracles, every day.

They dated happily for four years. Earlier this year, he proposed. Shortly thereafter, they had a small civil ceremony, witnessed by a handful of friends, that was beautiful and hilarious and very much in keeping with their odd history. Think bouquet through the metal detector, pricey parking ticket, forgotten tie-arranging skills. That sort of thing. The pictures reveal two people madly in love, through it all.

I missed that wedding, and I was deeply sorry that I had. Fortunately, he comes from a giant immigrant Russian Jewish family, and she’s the first of two gorgeous daughters to get hitched in a family of Korean diplomats (hello, hereditary event planning!), so there was never a chance of them escaping a bigger production for the rest of us.

On the afternoon of Sunday, September 28, 2008, after days of deluge, an hour before we were to assemble for Wedding 2.0, the skies cleared and the sun shone, a light wind kicked up, and the universe graced two truly wonderful people with the kind of wedding true love deserves.

The wedding was perfect.

Don’t get me wrong; all sorts of shit went sideways. The bouquets and floral arrangements were finished by her mom and I with barely time to spare. Some knucklehead had managed, the night before, to crash his car into their neighbors’ yard, missing the grooms’ car (and thus their getaway vehicle) by mere feet, so we all awoke the morning of the wedding to find a minivan plowed halfway up the lawn next door. We all forgot to ensure that they had appropriate glasses for the traditional glass-stomping that signals a) a joy so great it cannot be contained by any vessel and b) the end of the wedding ceremony, so the bride scared up two of their cheapest wine glasses, which happened to be goblets so large they didn’t actually fit into the velvet pouch they were to be contained in for the stomping, so in the end the chosen glass was shoved with determination and a liberal greasing of hope into a Chivas pouch. It had been raining for several days and nights, so the lovely outdoor grounds were good and muddy for the bride to drag her train through (Bride’s reaction? “Screw it, I’m only wearing this damned thing once, anyway.” Love her!), and for we fair bridesmaids to totter down the aisle in. Not long after the groom brought his bride under the chuppah, a bee took up residence on his collar, and then called a buddy over to worry the bride for good measure. The groom was so eager to get to the kissing bit that he shouted “I do!” well before the cantor had finished reading him the vows he was to recite, and he received a gentle admonishment along the lines of “I’m not done yet! I’ll let you know when it’s your turn!” from the cantor. (Mind you, this groom had already been legally married to the bride for several months, and had, merely a half hour earlier, further sealed the deal by inking his name, before witnesses, to a lovely Ketubah, the Jewish marriage contract. You couldn’t get any more married than these two, and still he couldn’t wait to pledge himself again.) The cantor later addressed the groom by the wrong name, but the groom quickly reclaimed the chuckles of the assembled well-wishers by bungling the closing vows, which were to be “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,” by stating instead, “I am my beloved and…wait, that’s weird.” Until his bride helpfully leaned in and, brandishing the beatific grin she’d been wearing throughout the ups and slightly-less-ups of the ceremony, said, “‘I am my beloved’s.’ Belovedzzzzzz.” so they could get on to the closing bit and we could all finish celebrating their glorious love with caviar, vodka and smoked fish and meats.

In short, there was a lot of what would drive a Bridezilla type back up the aisle in tears, screaming for a fistful of Valium, but there was so much love, and joy, and laughter, that no one there would tell you that ceremony was anything short of perfection, that it was anything but evidence of grace, of a great and true love.

So, you see what I mean. It was perfect, because it was perfectly them. And all assembled were so swept up in their joy that there wasn’t even room for sentimental weeping. All around, sparkling happiness.

The groom’s multi-talented relatives rocked the reception. One, an otherwise unassuming fellow you wouldn’t peg for a showman if you saw him on the street, was not only a magnificent guitarist, he’s training in opera as a hobby–beautifully evident as he and other members of the groom’s family serenaded the couple with a medley that included a rendition of “Sunrise, Sunset” that thawed my cold little cyborg heart and moved me to tears, finally. Aaand then, when the DJ cranked the traditional American wedding dance medley, including the B-52s’ “Love Shack” and Abba’s “Dancing Queen,” that man executed high kicks that surely had Bob Fosse spinning in his grave with envy.

The serenade was sandwiched nicely between toasts (including a surprisingly eloquent poop story from the groom’s dad, and the bride’s sister revealing that the bride had a mean left hook in her early days, which led her to be known as a general schoolyard defender for some time), and a skit, an honest-to-god original song-and-dance number, in which several of the groom’s family members donned shawls and hoisted accordions, and sang hilariously of being Jewish gypsies with Russian accents trying to remain relevant and multiculti with an infusion of Korean blood within the next nine months. Kick. Ass.

And of course, there was dancing. Did I mention the bride’s wedding shoes were custom white leather and lace sneakers her mom had picked out for her? Yeah, once the music got going and all the greetings were sorted, she danced her bustle off without a hint of discomfort.

Party of the year. It warmed my heart to see her so happy. You can’t ask for more for anyone you call a friend than to watch them move in a circle of friends and family that loving, that open. To witness their staggering joy.

Now the Mr. and Mrs. are off waggling their toes, and possibly other bits, in the warm waters of the Pacific, hopefully having the greatest honeymoon in the history of legally-sanctioned cohabitation.

I’m home again, happy but exhausted. For the lucky couple, I’d like to quote the efficient and apt words left in the wedding guestbook by their dearest friends (also a duo of great humor, intellect, looks and achievement): “Congratulations on finally getting that s#*t LOCKED DOWN!” Mazel Tov, LeChaim, and all that jazz!

And to my dear friends and readers I say, if you enjoy such grace as great friends and true love, hold on to it. If you are seeking, may you find such friends, and a love who cannot say enough I dos, the kind of love that shows you radiant with joy.

I’m taking a blogging break. I feel like I could sleep for a fortnight after all this moving and traveling and merrymaking, and while I actually have to dive headlong into my real life again instead of said sleeping, I’m pretty sure not feeling the need to update my blog for a few weeks will in fact work wonders for my sleep-time.

See you in mid-October.