… and then a giant crack tore through the land, ripping across the earth like a slithering snake, swallowing everything in sight. The sound was thunderous, and people ran while it swallowed houses and convenience stores. But one man did not have time to react. He stood there unaware, eating a smoked sausage, and lost his footing before toppling into the abyss, never to be heard from again.
My brother had been swallowed by the wedding planning chasm of doom. Sadness swept the land.
My, it’s mighty good to have been married so long ago, and so far removed from wedding planning. Not that I didn’t enjoy getting married. Who doesn’t enjoy an infinity of planning and spending more money than the GDP of Paraguay, all so you can say, “I do”? Then you stare mouth-watering while guests devour food you won’t have time to touch.
“You save me a shrimp, grandmom!” I remember yelling more than once.
But now it’s my younger brother Scott’s turn. He’s engaged and the planning has begun.
I used to like to taunt him.
“You know what your wedding needs?” I would tell him.
“Oh God,” he would groan, vertebrae literally popping from his spine like popcorn.
“Pinstripe suits. We should wear pinstripes suits. That would be elegant, and would accent your crankiness.”
Scott would stare up at the ceiling, wishing his mental powers — which had mastered math and science well enough — could also muster the strength to bring down the roof, on himself and me.
But much worse is my mother. While I realize there is only so far I can take my razzing before he snaps and shows me the benefits of being the younger, but much larger brother, she is relentless. And she’s not joking.
At my wedding, my mother went to no end to make sure that on my big day, I was clinically insane and seeing spots. Her intensity was like a general planning for war, and my to-be wife divorced me three times before we were ever married.
Understand my mother is in every way both an artist and a life director, staging elaborate productions whether she is walking down the street minding everyone else’s business or marrying off one of her sons.
My wife and I were hitched in a historic courtyard of a historic house. My mother saw it, and decided two trees needed a hammock between them, and a wheelbarrow had to be propped up against another — for visual effect.
She sauntered about the place on her first visit, her head spinning wildly at the possibilities:
“In this corner,” she said, “I picture Guatemalan street children with their dirty hands raised up to you. In a sign of generosity and goodwill, you will give them mini ham and onion quiches, then tell them to go in peace. Here we will station an oversized man named Stewey who will look like a thug, but recite Shakespeare to the guests. And there, looking down from the balcony, will be Salvador Dali and Mark Twain, twin creative geniuses symbolizing your own creative spirits. ”
And on like that it went for months, until we were married and left the country not for a honeymoon, but to escape the calls in the middle of the night that began with, “So what about dangling fruit from the tent and a snake charmer over by the oil drum I just bought?”
So I don’t envy the position my brother and his fiancÈe Holly are in. It’s tough, and you must have the mettle to survive it. It’s how I imagine Army Ranger boot camp. All that planning, all the tough decisions, all the calls from family.
It’s all certainly worth it, but if, and only if, you can first survive that fall down into the wedding planning chasm of doom.