Dedicated readers may have noticed that my blogging has tapered off lately. This eventuality is due to the fact that I've been juggling the equivalent of three part-time jobs (one of which I don't get paid for, ahem ARWZ...). But this past weekend I attended a thoroughly blog-worthy happening and can't help but write about it. My oft-mentioned cousin Jennifer got married. Sigh.

Behold, cute and tasteful dresses

Please don't misconstrue my sigh. It's nothing against her choice of groom or the new in-laws or the craziness of the wedding. Jennifer managed to have a perfectly respectable wedding that was overall a pleasure to take part in, complete with cute and tasteful bridesmaids dresses and completely devoid of bride-zilla complications. Her in-laws are down-to-earth, fun and real folks, and her new husband, the notorious Trevor O'Neil, is without a doubt the most eligible bachelor in the Salamanca Metropolitan area. But it all just underscores what I hate most about weddings... getting married. The dresses are fun, the dancing is fun, the getting too drunk is fun (at least until the next morning... oof...) but at the end of it, you're married. At 25. Shiver.

Jenn and Trevor, the then-"most eligible bachelor" in Salamanca

But I realized this weekend, after getting a little teary-eyed watching Jennifer walk down the aisle on her father's arm, that the choices she makes are the ones that are right for her, and my adoration of being single and living alone is great for me because I love it, but not necessarily right for anyone else, and not necessarily right for Jennifer. Ultimately, though, at the end of the day, the choices that Jennifer and I make are not only right for us... but the person who benefits most in the end is undoubtedly Neilbert. It occurred to me this weekend while watching Jenn and our family celebrate her big day, that my uncle Jimbert (Jenn's dad) has been through this now with two children, and Neilbert has remained completely exempt from all but the most fun and voluntary wedding activities. He gets to show up, take a million pictures, dance to oldies, eat buffet food, drink beer and experience the vicarious satisfaction of his god-daughter getting married while Jimbert foots the bill. Score for Neilbert! Way to raise a daughter with non-traditional values and a god-daughter with traditional ones. Though, to be fair, Jimbert did more of the work in the latter task, too.

Party on, Neilbert!

Back to the near teary-eyed moment of Jennifer walking down the aisle. I stood there at the front of the church... the church where I went since childhood with my grandparents on Sundays in Salamanca, the church where I first contemplated a Masters in Religious Studies, the church where I sobbed at my grandfather's funeral... and as I got choked up watching Jennifer and Jimbert walk down the aisle while the organist struck up the wedding march I couldn't help but wonder how culturally conditioned am I? Seriously, I get choked up at the big moment with all the triggers getting tugged. How predictable is that? Either way though, I look like an emotional sap for crying. See, you have to understand, I can't dab the tears like a normal person. When I start crying, when that seal is broken... I just don't stop. Think back, same church, grandpa's funeral, I found myself praying to stop crying just long enough for my rotation of three Kleenexes to dry. I didn't want a repeat of this mucus deluge at the wedding.

Jimbert and Jenn

Luckily, there were kneelers. Jennifer and Trevor, being of different faiths, decided on a Catholic ceremony that was co-officiated by Jenn's priest and Trevor's Methodist pastor. This was cool with me because I didn't want to have to confront the issue of what to do about receiving communion. If it were a wedding mass, I'd have to navigate how to decline gracefully in front of a church full of people. See, I'm a Catholic in the cultural sense and I respect the faith as it stands, but I have a few doctrinal objections and... bless me Father for I have sinned, but it's been twenty years since my last confession... I don't take communion for this reason, but prefer not to share this reasoning with my grandma. Consequently, I was glad not to have to eschew publicly any Eucharistic portion of the service. However, the wedding was otherwise as Catholic as it could possibly be short of having a mass. To the disappointment of Trevor's Methodist family and most of my Catholic family, the service was just as long as mass. Though, the generously-hearted bemusement of both Trevor's side of the church and the Methodist preacher contrasted with the sweetly orthodox earnesty of the straight-from-Poland priest for a generally supportive atmosphere.

Me, walking down the aisle with the Best Man, (more on him in Part II)

And then, of course, there was the kneeling. Four individual kneelers were set up at the front of the church, two in the center for Jennifer and Trevor and one on each side of those for the best man and the maid of honor... Sigh, yes folks, I was the maid of honor. So what's wrong with kneelers? Well, they were provided for us in lieu of seating. When the congregation got to sit down, we had to kneel. For those of you who didn't know me when I was twelve, this is a recipe for fainting. I first fainted in Catholic grade school during Stations of the Cross, wherein there is a grand volley of kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing... I've since learned the signs and I rarely faint because even when I do feel it coming on, I know how to head it off at the pass. This method usually involves sitting down and sticking my head between my knees, a practical impossibly up at the altar with only a kneeler to my name. All emotion-rousing thoughts of family-togetherness, rites of passage, turns of generation... all got buried under a running thought-tirade of, "Oh God, please don't let me faint... how long is this going to take... if I do have to faint, what's proper etiquette here?... do I tap Jenn on the shoulder during the vows and say 'don't mind me, I'm just slipping into the pew so as to avoid collapsing on the altar.' "

What a relief to be standing up

Despite my twenty confession-less years, the Lord Almighty granted me a faint-free wedding experience and from there it was off to the reception where I suffered through my maid of honor toast, ate multiple meats, danced, got drunk, requested songs for my parents, and where Sabrina and I gained a number of peculiar reputations... But you'll just have to wait for Part II to hear about those.