Tuesday, February 24, 2009

I love weddings, even weddings at which I have to do the "single girl of a certain age sitting alone at a table during a slow dance" scene found in the dopiest of romantic comedies. (No, seriously. When they took the photos of the people at our table, mine ended up being with my stepmother's old family dentist. I can only imagine that I look wildly alarmed in it. Dentists are scary.) No one fell into the cake or pushed the prom queen into the pool, and everyone that was supposed to got good and married, and I am glad I made the trip to watch my favorite step-family-member get hitched.

It was a little strange to be at a wedding during a weekend filled mostly with endings and last things and goodbyes, filled with the certain knowledge that many of the things that have always been are almost not going to be anymore. I've never been very good at endings or uncertain goodbyes, at looking at what's left of my grandparents, at visiting favorite places for the last time.

If I were religious, I would be giving up melancholy for Lent. Melancholy, and boys who never call back.

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