We don't go to many weddings, which is odd, since our kids and their friends are of the marrying age.
I suppose it's because a lot of kids decide to skip the whole marriage deal in favor of cohabitation, or maybe they're just waiting until the time is right.
I can't wait to go to more weddings, as I've had quite enough of life's celebrations at the other end. It seems like more people are dying than getting married these days. Maybe it's just our age and stage.
So it was nice to participate in something on the positive side of the slide rule for a change. A marriage, with its good intentions, reaffirms all that is positive in life.
Love, commitment, family. Good food, silly music, great company.
I like that.
The marriage of John and Monica was a small yet stunning affair. She was truly a beautiful bride. She literally shimmered with joy. Her groom and his dad were the hit of the night, if I were reviewing this, both so emotional, hardly able to speak. There aren't many men who wear their emotions on the outside, particularly guys like John are military folk. Father and son could barely get through their speeches and had the rest of us tearing up and cheering them on.
The dinner was at the War Museum and it was inspiring. There weren't plates of rubber chicken or slabs of beef. There was a healthy buffett, supervised by Monica who is a vegan and cares about this kind of stuff. There was also a candy bar, which had all the kids in the room -- young and old -- hopped up and dancing to Jennifer Lopez.
And the party favors were seedlings -- wow, how great is that?
I don't know the Troyer family well. Scott and I didn't get married until we were in our mid-forties, but it's like we've known each other forever. Being in their midst is like jumping into a nice, big, warm sweater.
I've had the other kind of in-laws, and believe you me, I am grateful to share my husband with a bunch of nice, normal people.
Thanks to Jennifer and Andy, and Monica and John for giving us the nicest time on this glorious weekend.
It was a blast.
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