You've Been Served...

...another heaping pile of words from Dr Sanscravat

It’s an excerpt from my newest collection: Tabula Rasa, Baby: (Not Written in Stone). The little book is available—TODAY—from Amazon, in paper and Kindle editions.

Terms of Engagement

As young boys, growing up, we were vaguely aware that weddings and marriage existed, but we lumped them together with other “things to be avoided”—like skunks, poison ivy, and soap. As we get older, and the inevitability of the unthinkable approaches, we realize that there are but two details about which we should worry: picking the right engagement ring, and finding the least-objectionable way to present it without making complete asses of ourselves.

Once past those obstacles, there’s only the engagement.

Most males believe that the engagement is a kind of grace period, designed to provide either party a chance to weasel out of the contract.

We—poor innocents—were either unaware of, or never paid attention to, the young females who grew up in our vicinity. Many of these inscrutable creatures (who, for all we knew, were of some entirely different species) had, from an early age, been planning imaginary weddings—either alone or in cahoots with similarly-minded females. The details of their imagined weddings might have changed, but their complexity only increased, like a cancer, year after year. By the time they reach marriageable age, with a wedding date already inked in, a set of plans as convoluted as the outline of a Russian novel of the larger sort has been formulated.

To outline one of these metaphorical novels, she must consider mood, theme, character development, byzantine relationships between other characters, setting(s), multiple plots and sub-plots, so that no unexpected conflicts might present themselves.

As mere grooms, we are naturally and blissfully oblivious to all this.

At first.

Like the unfortunate frog, who discovers that his smallish pond is actually a pot that has been set on the stove, we begin to notice that we’re in hot water.

While we’re worrying about the likelihood of choking or mumbling our lines at the altar, our future bride is manipulating the numberless details of the impending event. Clothes—for us, no more than a collection of unmatched items we use to shield us from weather—become a cacophony of competing fabrics, styles, cuts, colors, and god-knows what-all attributes, every one of which is of critical importance to the bride and her cohorts.

That such details are indistinguishable to us does little more than make us lodestones of feminine disapproval.

Still, we cannot comprehend the reason for the long engagement, despite the fact that the bride’s inner circle might need two months just to determine the seating arrangements at the reception. Relationships of which we have no knowledge—or, if we have, are of no consequence to us—are of paramount importance to the growing circle of female co-conspirators who orbit the bride-to-be. Layers of social and familial entanglements rivaling those of the Hatfields and McCoys, must be identified and parried through meticulous planning. We, frankly, had never really paid much attention to who—exactly—all these relatives were, let alone the forces that attracted them to, or repelled them from, one another.

We learn all this for the first time.

Whether we wish to or not.

Weeks and weeks will be spent interviewing potential DJs, printers of wedding invitations, florists, bakers, hairdressers, organizers, clergy and/or justices, facilities managers, caterers, hoteliers, chauffeurs, mixologists and moon-shiners, honeymoon travel planners—up to, and possibly including, fools, jugglers, acrobats, peacocks, and trained apes. Almost every service one could possibly want, will be vetted—with the curious exceptions of bookies, deep-sea fishing charters, cocktail waitresses, and belly-dancers.

Much as we would like for all this to proceed without us, we are expected to participate in every decision. Knowing, beforehand, that any suggestions we might offer will be disregarded would be merciful.

There will be no mercy.

We will, eventually, discover that we have achieved the social status of a feeble-minded uncle. We will become the guy who shows up at all family gatherings, is led to a soft chair in a remote corner, and ignored until dinner time. Then, one unfortunate person draws the short straw and has to sit beside us, wipe up occasional spills, pick up dropped flatware, and mop drool from our grizzled chin.

It is the time-tested training method for married life.