Ah, weddings. What can I say? Regular readers here know of my general antipathy toward marriage ceremonies, but since I have had a year to bend my sister-in-law’s will in line with my own, I was rather happy with how this one progressed. Much to my surprise and delight, I did not burst into flames upon entering the church, and the service was mercifully brief. The bridal party rode in the limousine to the site of the reception, and when I say “limousine,” I mean “twenty-foot stretch Humvee” (given the general classiness of the event, it was easy to recognize the areas in which my brother contributed his two cents). The photo sessions were manageable, although some will no doubt find it remarkable when I fail to show up on film. My only quibble is that we were once again introduced by microphone as if we were peculiarly formal contestants on a game show, but since I managed to down a couple of glasses of wine between photographs, I was feeling magnanimous and did not comment. (If you are getting married and cannot be persuaded to elope, at least do us all a favor and opt for a receiving line.)

You will not find it surprising that I and Rob both looked fabulous. I was proud to dance with him at the reception, even given his nineteen-eighties style maneuvering. At one point, my brother Timothy cut in on us and danced with Rob. He eventually danced with me, as well, and everyone but the kitchen sink. He was a dancing fool, that one. Long the family scalawag, Tim has grown up nicely. The mantle of Rascal has been claimed by a young male relative of my new sister-in-law, who sent several bridesmaids flying as he grabbed the bridal bouquet out of the air.

The cake was delicious.

I still hate weddings, but this one was nice.