Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

Last Saturday, wearing a pink tie, exhausted from an early morning flight from LA, I entered an uncomfortable church to serve as bridesmaid to a girl that I had only met twice. For weeks I had been joking about the color of my dress, how I would do my hair and the ever cliche "are you going to catch the bouquet." As a travel writer, I found myself constantly searching for an "angle" on the story. This means finding the drama, and what that means is spotting what can go wrong.

The wedding was a unique merging of two people from very different worlds. The groom, my cousin, came from a family who valued fancy things like fancy shirts, expensive shoes and share the overall belief that a vacation isn't a vacation unless 1000 thread count sheets, butlers and caviar are involved. The bride, whom I was chosen to represent came from a family whose passions didn't necessarily align with those of my own family. Simply stated, where as my father enjoyed looking at birds, her family enjoyed killing them.

While one part of me identified with the importance of the day for my cousin and his fiance, another part of me needed the drama. As I considered differences in social status and religious background, I salivated at the idea that somehow things HAD to go askew. Somehow, like most things in my life, something would pop up that I could really sink my teeth into and I'd leave with an unrivaled slice of life piece on a wedding day gone hilariously array.

I arrived and things were going perfectly according to plan. One of the bridesmaids, also a male, and the 21 year old best friend and father-in-law of the bride was driving in from New Orleans, Louisiana where he had been working and as the clock raced towards the 3:30 wedding time, he was nowhere to be seen. Upon his arrival into town, my cousin the groom vanished as well to buy him a shirt. Speculation about the shirt ran amok. What would he be wearing? He had been awake for 35 hours.

I entered the Oklahoma church and went down to the recreation room. On the wall, hanging just above a pool table in a room full of games, was a massive poster covered in colorful child-sized hand prints and just under proclaiming that "everyday 29,000 people die." I rolled my eyes at the absurd poster, certain that no God that I would ever believe in would make that phrase the joyful focal point of a church. I certainly wouldn't want to be married in a house with such a morbidly misrepresented proclamation. The preacher was an unsmiling man of 50 or so with piercing eyes and a cold handshake. Right in line with the type of person who would allow such absurd posters to hang on the wall.

I heard whisperings of arguments throughout my family. The absence of the mother of the groom was also topic of speculation. Having recently divorced herself, she was resistant to come to the wedding which was the cause of much discussion. My phone dinged with texts of people checking in to see how beautiful i looked in my bridesmaid dress. The best friend/brother-in-law screamed in just under the wire in a ball cap, shorts and a tee shirt, which contrasted profoundly against the otherwise immaculately dressed guests and groomsmen. The table was set for insanity.

With no music, her mother on one arm and her father-in-law, now in a suit, on the other, the bride walked down the aisle. Everyone watched. The reached the alter. The priest had them decree their love for one another. He read scripture and they said their vows and as they spoke them her mother cried. After the kiss, my cousin held her for an almost uncomfortably long period of time, savoring the moment that they had just magically shared in front of everyone who loved them. The preacher then erroneously pronounced them husband and wife but of the wrong last name and they walked out the aisle.

At the reception the mother and father-in-law of the bride told me the unique back story in how two people with such an age variance met and fell in love. He told me how his wife had talked to him on the phone for most of the last 15 hours to keep him awake to share this moment with her daughter. To think that at one point so many people were concerned about what he would be wearing instead of the sacrifice he made to be there.

Lots of people with great anticipation, asked me what my take on the wedding would be for a story. As I tried to answer I became awash with guilt. So trained was I in finding the conflict that even as a bridesmaid, couldn't just sit back and see the good in it. So wrapped up was I in what I didn't grasp about the church that I judged a place where people went when they were afraid, alive or in love.

So wrapped up was I in what makes us different people that I didn't see how we were all being unified, then there with my pink tie on, in his father's living room, I watched how happy Morgan and Angel his wife were as they danced to a song played on a single guitar. There in my pink tie realized why I was there and what the story was about. Them and that beautiful, pure moment where two lives come together, temporarily free from fear and judgment, even if only in one another's arms, surrounded by the love unique only to them. Congrats, guys.

Winning

I've always had a fucked up view of winning. As an awkward kid with twiggy legs and spindly arms, I played team sports and almost always on the best teams. Unfortunately, however I was typically among the top three worst athletes and most of the time, the coaches were cliche assholes (if you are reading... well... you were) so even when the team celebrated a victory, I found myself on the outside of the victorious dog pile, closer in feeling tone to the losing team, but without a team to lean on.

As a result I hated teams. Still do. I would no sooner play on a basketball team than pursue a career in aerodynamic engineering. On the rare occasion that I'm forced into something where I have to rely on someone else's athleticism or intellect to win something, I almost feel my weight plummet, my legs shrink to pencils and my ability to contribute wane to almost nothing. I go from a fit, confident guy with grand ambition to a tea cup poodle.

With team sports out of the question, I played games like tennis. This seemed like something I could do well. I was on the court alone, so there was no one to compare myself to physically. Tennis players were typically alienated kids so I found myself in the company of other loners which was nice because I could be around people but didn't have to actually talk to them. The really great thing was that I was actually good at tennis. I could spend hours at a time hitting a ball against a backboard or hitting serves and in my mind was a champion every day. When I lost, it was my battle to lose but at least I didn't have to have be the worst guy on the winning team. When I won, I won.

My social insecurity carried from the basketball courts and school into the rest of my life and it was no different in Oklahoma City than it was where my family spent their summers in Northern Michigan. The only difference was that in Michigan, given the town's country club pedigree, individual sports such as tennis among good athletes were encouraged. At this club, we were forced to play in all white clothes as our parents watched our practice over a club sandwich and a cocktail under a pool side umbrella as they discussed the stock market and their golf game.

While I hated being back amongst judgmental piers, the good news was that at least when it came to tennis, I could hold my own, though it didn't allow me any social graces. A strong serve doesn't put hair on your arms and a good forearm doesn't mean make you appealing to the opposite sex. Basically I was back to feeling like shit about myself.

Most of these club members were millionaires many times over and though they owned fortune five hundred companies, for whatever reason, nothing was bigger (or so it felt) than the summer tennis tournament. Most summers, my family had returned home by the time this massive event rolled around but one summer I was there for it and among the most likely to win. That didn't speak well. Especially to parents who put great expectations on their children. WInning every year, was Alexander, cliche-ly nicknamed Alexander the Great.

I have never wanted a victory so much in my life. While most kids lived on the water, my family was up on the "Bluff." which to me was like the hood. Alexander being the cool kid, had all his buddies to hit with and I had my dad or a wall. I felt like Rocky in Rocky Four when all he had was a barn and the Russian had machines, coaches and medicine. Much like Rocky, however I had the unconditional love and support of my family who wanted me to win perhaps more than I did.

I easily made it to the finals and it was me verses Alexander. Word got out that it would be a good match and suddenly the court was surrounded by upwards of 100 people which felt like the entire world. In my own insecure head, I was certain that spare my own family, NO ONE, especially my piers were cheering for me. Luckily, my mom, dad, sister, and grandmother there. Also in attendance, was my grandfather, a war hero and the only person that I genuinely wanted to impress.

We played two out of three sets and Alexander won the first easily. Half way through the second, I was losing steam and it was assumed that he would win. Used to losing, I felt at ease resigning myself to a silver. with one point left to win the entire match, I began to come back. Before long I had won the set. I will never forget winning it and hearing the majority of the kids my age collectively cry "shit!" as their hero lost the set. For the first time I was angry at their discuss and so I fought back.

I came back with a strong game and beat him up until finally I won. I couldn't believe it. I made my way to center court as my piers scowled at me. Mike, the affable tennis instructor smiled and gave me my trophy to some good applause from the parents and then I made my way off the court and as I did, every single kid my age walked past me without so much as eye contact. I found my parents and asked where my grandfather was and they told me he had given up on me earlier in the match and gone home. My parents were then leaving to drive back to Oklahoma City, leaving me there for the rest of the summer.

They took off and I walked to my bike alone. Around the corner, I heard Alexander's mother screaming at him and calling him a loser. I watched this kid who had always been so popular get crucified by his mom. I listened to what she called me and what she called my family and I thought, I should have just let the kid win.

I rode home and as I passed one kid's house, they threw a football at my bike causing me to almost drop my trophy. i remember wanting to just give it to them. I walked into the house where my grandfather had just woken from a nap. "I'm sorry you lost," he said. I told him I had actually won. His face spoke of profound disappointment and though he was disappointed in himself for having given up on me early, that is how I read it. Somehow in the convulsion of my mind, even in victory, I had been defeated.

That night, I lay in bed and listened to kids play tee-ball and read a manuscript my grandfather had given me about his experience as a Prisoner of War in Japan, my trophy on the wicker table next to my bed. I thought about how his hope had left the world with such a powerful story about making it even when everyone had given up on you... About how victory is internal and in that moment, I won. I wanted to write like he did. I just needed to live a life telling about.