This past weekend was great. Boyfriend and I headed to our hometown for my friend’s wedding, and for my godsister’s birthday party. My friend and I had been best friends in high school, but drifted apart shortly after we graduated. We reconnected last year and I was so happy to be invited to her wedding. She was a beautiful bride. She married a great guy, and the wedding was so lovely.
Being at home for these happy events made me alternately happy and nostalgic for the past. But even if being at home this weekend evoked memories of my younger days, I was reminded that I sometimes do not act my age.
When I was fifteen, my family and I attended a Catholic wedding. I had not grown up as a Catholic and was not familiar with the traditions of a Catholic wedding. At one point in the ceremony, the priest began singing a capella. And I cracked UP. Something about the priest singing spontaneously made me hysterical. I tried very hard not to laugh but failed miserably. I was mortified; my dad was a teacher and this church was full of teachers from his district. But despite my mortification, I could not stop myself from laughing.
I had just finished telling Boyfriend this story when my friend’s wedding started. She looked so beautiful and serene, walking down the aisle with her father. They were walking to a sweet song about a father walking his daughter down the aisle to her new husband (I think it is called “Sweet Walk” by Edwin McCain). I traditionally don’t do very well with sappy father/daughter songs. At my aunt’s wedding, she and my grandfather had danced to “Butterfly Kisses.” I was sixteen but could not keep it together. I started bawling, and as my father hugged me, I whispered fiercely, “I HATE THIS SONG.”
So perhaps that’s why I was trying to find any reason not to cry as my friend was walking down the aisle with her dad. My own father was right behind me, and I was trying not to think just how emotional that moment my friend was experiencing must be.
So, when the song skipped, I was horrified to find myself stifling a giggle. No one else was laughing – not Boyfriend, not my parents, not even the middle-school aged child in the pew behind me. I was the only one.
They continued their walk and as I watched my friend, I remembered when we were fourteen-year-old girls, passing notes to each other, writing the names of our crushes in code.
The song skipped again.
I bit my lip really hard to keep from giggling again. I’m not sure I succeeded very well.
If I could please psychoanalyze myself without an ounce of psychiatric training, I’d say I was trying to find anything to keep me from bursting into tears at how beautiful it all was.
Finally, as the pastor announced the brand-new couple as husband and wife, I found my eyes welling with tears and happiness.
Next time, I’ll just start crying when the bride walks down the aisle, so that I don’t embarrass myself or my family again with my inappropriate laughter.