"Wow, you look so young to be a minister!" the strange lady exclaimed.
"I'm not a minister," I politely replied.
"Oh, then you must be a Justice of the Peace."
"No, not a JP either...," I said with a smirk.
She paused in thought, confused. Wanting to painlessly finish this awkward exchange, I came forth with the quick explanation.
"I got a one-day designation from the State."
"Oh really? You look like you've been doing this for a long time. You should be a professional!"
This was the general small talk, chit-chat conversation that I had with quite a few strangers after the deal was sealed between two of my best friends. By me, of course. And as much as the thought of officiating weddings as a career move sounded enticing, I think once was enough. It's all I'm legally allowed in the State of Massachusetts anyway.
It was my first time marrying anyone, and I must say it was monumentally emotional.
Back in late 2008, two of my closest childhood friends decided to finally tie the knot after a 10-year courtship. I was asked to officiate the ceremony, a request so huge and intimidating that the gravity of the task didn't hit me until a few weeks before showtime, when I had to buckle down and write the script for the proceedings.
How does one go about writing something special enough to commemorate such an important occasion, while making sure to include a healthy balance between sentimental slop and heart-warming funny stuff? For a first timer, I was shitting my pants.
Inspiration came from many places, but in the end, the theme of friendship and love became the glue. Luckily for me, my scribe duties were deemed acceptable by the happy couple. Now all I needed to do was ensure I didn't fumble during the live proceedings. Public speaking is not one of my fortes, but I needed to deliver.
In the days leading up to game time, I was shocked at how serene I felt. Perhaps the stresses of family life and the busy day-to-day activities at home were a suitable distraction. But when Day One of the three day wedding activities arrived, I began to get a little wary.
The Bachelor Party
For those of you looking to get your vicarious rocks off to a couple paragraphs of sordid lechery and hilarious male antics, please search elsewhere. The Hangover is probably still in movie theaters. No, for this bachelor party, there would be no Siamese midgets with flame throwers, no man-on-donkey hilarity, no ping pong balls shooting out of any dark orifices, not even the traditional stripper with natural D-cups and really strong abs. We were going beyond old school. We were headed back to childhood and what it means to just hang with the guys. Or boys, as it were.
The day began with a triathlon of sorts, but without all the competitive drive that makes actual triathlons so exhausting. Mini golf, go-karts, and batting cages. Once the disappointment of learning that there would be no naked whores spinning around poles and chairs passed, I tucked my wad of one-dollar bills back into my pocket and got in my zone. It was game time.
With his emerald green golf ball in hand, the groom-to-be teed off on the first hole. I followed with candy-apple red, then the neon orange best man finished on par. Many holes, a few accidental plops into the running water, and a few bratty kids with swinging clubs later, the game was over. Predictably, the best man took first place, as always. And, as always, the groom took last place. I was all too happy to be sandwiched between two such fine male specimens and their round balls.
Next, go-karts.
Now, when I was a kid and a driver's license was still but a dream, this sort of thing would have really made my day. Granted, there's nothing quite like whipping around a dangerous curve in a tiny metal car that is mere inches from the hot asphalt below, but when the speed peters out at a mere 20 mph or so, I find my mind wandering. The huge signs that read "No Bumping" killed whatever hopes of fun I had in my heart. I so wanted to ram a few of the adolescent troublemakers off the track in a heap of burning wreckage, listening while they screamed for mommy as I burned rubber into the sunset. Maybe next time.
Hellbilly DeluxeAfter a refreshing Black Raspberry ice cream and chocolate sprinkle interlude, we finished ourselves off with a few rounds in the batting cages.
For anyone that has never had the pleasure of thwacking a fast-moving object with a heavy metal bat, you've really got to try it out. In the interest of avoiding jail time, nailing a few balls is highly recommended over low-flying birds or small humans. After many wasted swings, I got some valuable coaching from my pals, who are naturally more sports-inclined than yours truly. That made all the difference. The quivering of my hands after the shock of ball-to-bat impact was truly satisfying.
Even more satisfying? Slurpees.
Driving a few towns over, we finally found a 7-Eleven, symbolically important as not only the mecca for icy goodness, but also because of the wedding date.
Much like most of the days activities, I hadn't partaken in a slurpee in years. The brain freeze head rush was just like old times. Although my nether regions hadn't been stimulated that day and my dollar bills remained without a g-string to call home, bonding with the boys on a sunny New England afternoon was a reminder of what was truly important in that moment. In a couple days time, our friend would officially join the love of his life in adulthood, passing into the next stage of maturity where priorities would no doubt change and opportunities like this would not come often. For a few hours, we were kids again. No worrying about job stability, mortgages, children or market crashes. Just us and a few plastic balls.
A Free Man, But Not For Long
Officiator, Best Man, GroomThat evening, our trio joined up with the brother of the groom and a handful of dudes who have also been a part of our lives for many years. We dined in luxury at the Capital Grille on Boston's swanky Newbury Street, supposedly a local favorite of the Boston Red Sox. Inside the dimly lit restaurant, packed to the walls with other carnivores, we enjoyed some of the best steak I've ever had in America.
Capital Grille
Three WangsBeneath ancient light fixtures, spooky faces of colonial paintings peered down at our round table from the walls above. Waiters in charming olde-tyme uniforms zipped about the floor, seemingly trapped in a time warp when patrician men wielded monocles and top hats, while their wives socialized at home over tea and the help wrangled the children dressed in petticoats and loafers. The place dripped with old Boston charm. It was nice to dine in such opulence with pals who could afford to partake in this meal. Why, just fifteen years ago, we spent our hard-earned pocket money mere blocks down the street, at the decidedly more affordable TGI Fridays.
Joey, Jovan, Ping, Kevin, Jason, Neil, Andy
As the evening came to a very conservative, pre-midnight close, we stumbled from the lanes with sore wrists and pulpy fingers. The next time we would see our friend, we would be ushering him into a life of wedded bliss (or at least going through the motions at the rehearsals).
The Rehearsal
Cutest Chocolate EverI parked my car along a suspiciously dodgy back street in the South End, tangled weeds, torn chain-link fencing and crumbled sidewalk concrete welcoming me to this forgotten section of urban industry. The bright midday sun was kind enough to welcome me into its arms with melting rays of UV destruction. My stuffy shirt and trouser combo was a far cry from the breezy short and t-shirt set. Making matters worse, I unwittingly parked too far from the venue, so when I arrived, I was covered in sweat and looked like I just emerged from a tropical jungle excursion. The perfect image of a guy set to perform one of the most hallowed and meaningful acts of his life.
The Artists for Humanity compound -- the chosen venue for the matrimonial proceedings -- consisted of a gaping gallery of hard, gray concrete. From the mezzanine, onlookers could peer over quirky guard rails made of old auto windshields. The only circulation was provided by open windows and ceiling fans, as there was no central air-conditioning system. This was hardly the conventional spot for a wedding.
The party was all present and waiting, the smiles and laughter masking a suspicious, nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. Once introductions were made, the wedding planner whipped us all into formation like goose stepping soldiers.
On the first go, I controlled my nerves to the best of my ability. Flanked on both sides by the groomsmen and bridesmaids, I did my best to remain composed. As the couple made their way up the imaginary aisle, the pressure was on. I could not let them down on the biggest day of their lives (thus far).
After the third try and a few mistakes, we nailed it. I managed to project my voice so that everyone could hear me, enunciating like a skilled politician and standing stiff as a board with pride and confidence.
Both sets of parents, the best man, the groomsmen, the cartwheeling maid of honor, the stumbling bridesmaids and the jittery ring bearer -- all ready to go on the big day. Standing in the warm glare of the afternoon sun with my two friends, I felt confident that we'd be just fine.
That night, over a boisterous rehearsal dinner, both clans united for some good old fashioned Cantonese banquet cuisine. At our table, the wedding party bonded over stories and memories, some happy and sweet, others that should have remained unannounced to avoid potential embarrassment.
The Bridal Party:
Sena, Alyssa, Ingrid, Elissa, May
The Groom's Side:
Joey, Dan, Jovan, Ping, Neil
Ya'll Ready?The Big Day
We've already established that this was not a traditional wedding, by any means. A lapsed Catholic with open views of faith conducting the ceremony, which was being held in an art studio for inner city kids, for a couple that had courted for a whopping ten years. Even the bachelor party -- painfully absent of any debaucherous antics -- was out of the norm. So on the big day, it wasn't surprising that things wouldn't be as sterile as they would have been with a significantly more stale couple.
Early that morning, the boys joined forces for some pizza, a little Michael Jackson memorial, and ironing. The jitters were palpable, as even a highly offensive South Park episode couldn't even elicit one good chuckle (too soon...jam-on~). A few miles away in the Back Bay, I wondered if the girls were having the same trouble relaxing.
Once we were suited up in our different suits (navy, charcoal, heather gray, brown and black) with matching ties (yellow and orange, surprisingly sexy once you seem them in person), we piled into a cramped clown car and began to steam ourselves to death in the midday sun as we drove to meet the women.
Pulling up to the Back Bay brownstone that has been a home base for our collective friendships for as far as we can remember, we emerged from the sweaty hotbox ten-pounds lighter. Sticky and burning, like lumps of bread being pulled out of a vat of stinky fondue cheese.
We were beckoned to wait inside, hidden and out of the way, so that the bride and groom could be reunited for their "first meeting." In the welcome shade of the trees lining the quiet street, he waited at the foot of the staircase for the unveiling of his blushing bride. When she emerged and descended the steps in a glorious, backless white gown, the sparkles in his eyes were so blinding we were forced to put on our sunglasses.
A furiously inventive array of photographing following, which saw the entire wedding party running up and down the street, barely avoiding instant death under the wheels of passing SUVs filled with gay men and soccer moms. There was some jumping, of course, and last minute thug shots of our group as gang members loitering against the red-bricked walls of the historical heritage buildings. We were quite menacing in our crisp white shirts and magenta, fuchsia and orange dresses.
I Tell You, That Shoe Was SO Heavy
Hey Boys!
Hey Ladies!
Lucky Man
Lucky Lady ;)
Piling back into the moving saunas, we made our way to the gallery, which had been transformed into an elegant and understated garden of flowing white sheets and bright yellow roses. From our mezzanine roost, we could see the horde of people, over 200 in all, mingling and chatting while we made our best efforts to suppress the butterflies and nerves that threatened to burst from our well-coiffed skulls.
The Incredible Hulk, Their First Choice For Officiator
Girls Attempt To Hulk Out, Look Constipated Instead
Jump all you want, you guys are next!
Naughty Hamsters
Say Cheese!And then it was time.
Lining up in the order that we had practiced so many times the day before, the procession began. First, the parents of the bride. Then, the parents of the groom. Then, me. Walking down the steps, I could see my buddy, the groom, keeping pace behind me. I hurried forward to get out of the way, as the oohs and ahhs from the crowd alerted me to the start of the frantic picture taking of one half of the happy couple.
Waiting at the head of the room, I was joined by the groom, whose smile was so wide I momentarily wished I was in his place at that second, marrying the girl of my own dreams. The best man and groomsmen followed, then the maid of honor and the bridesmaids behind them, just barely avoiding a slipping disaster from the pesky flower petals littering the floor. Then that old familiar tune kicked in and the bride began her descent, high-fiving father on her arm and a faint glitter in her eyes.
At the front of the room, our trio stood close together, bathed in sunlight. We could have been the only people in the room. As the couple gazed intently into each other's eyes, the connection and energy caused my chest to swell. When their unspoken words were conveyed, they turned to me. I cocked my eyebrows and waited for their signal. With a quiet nod, they gave me the go ahead. We all smiled. It was time to begin.
Though we had rehearsed this speech time and time again, nothing could compare to the gravity held by each word during the actual ceremony. Tears spilled from the bride's eyes and the tension was broken with a collective giggle as she wiped them away with a conveniently-placed tissue.
With the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I finally declared them husband and wife. As they kissed and walked down the aisle hand-in-hand, I let out a huge sigh of relief. Taking the arm of the maid of honor, we were reunited with the newlyweds in our mezzanine hideaway.
The CeremonyPhoto from Sharon Hsu
It's Official!Until Next Year...
After the nuptials, the requisite motions followed: pictures with the new couple; the expertly executed first dance; speeches from the best man, maid of honor and happy father of the bride; and an unconventional (but delicious) family-style dinner. The party goers danced the night away to a combination of mashed-up pop hits, copious amounts of MJ, and modern favorites that seemed aimed squarely at our demographic. I was only too happy that the Chicken Dance, Cotton-Eye Joe, and YMCA didn't make an appearance, as that would have sullied the entire mood of the evening.
Dinner Time
Cheers!
Ping, Elissa, Sharon, NeilPhoto from Sharon Hsu
The NECYSC GangPhoto from Sharon Hsu
In between glasses of free flowing wine and uncomfortable slow dances with random drunken family members, attendees were encouraged to get shots in the DIY Photo Booth. The photos would be pasted into a keepsake album and signed by all, the perfect gift to remember this day.
Stuffed inside the cramped booth with old pals and new friends, it felt like old times. The days gone by when our group of awkward adolescent ABCs huddled together at Chinese camp, taking picture after picture of each other in an effort to capture all the happiness and joy of that moment, one of the most special times of the year when we were all truly ourselves for an entire week in each other's company.
In a time before unlimited digital pictures, each photo meant something. They represented a tangible piece of our history that we would file, save, share and cherish for the rest of our lives. Over nearly twenty years, we have collected enough snapshots to fill encyclopedia volumes. A lifelong testament to our friendship, our love, our bond.
Back in the photo booth, we were in the midst of celebrating a much bigger bond between two of our ranks. One could say the ultimate bond. With each burst of the flash and inappropriately naughty pose into the camera lens, we were creating fitting additions to the end of an era that began decades before. The chapters chronicling our youth could now be closed to the chiming of wedding bells that would find all of us eventually. Our wedded friends were about to move on into the real adult world. We too would move forward, beginning new chapters of our collective story.
We will marry.
We will have kids.
We'll be the Aunties and Uncles to each others' kids, who will know us as the people that drop by unexpectedly on the weekends, telling crazy stories and sharing laughter with their parents about a time long since passed, a time that might as well be ancient history to a child.
As these children grow up together, they will continue what we started when we were their age.
And when we're old and gray, flipping through the dusty keepsake photo albums created in our youth, we'll remember just how much we mean to each other.
Amazing Photo By Abby Christensen
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