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So I’m going to have eight groomsmen at my wedding.
My bride-to-be decided long ago that she couldn’t possibly pick and choose between her six best friends, and on top of that she made her sister her maid of honour. Then she added my sister to the lady train, and bam! Count ’em: Eight women on the roster.
This obligated me to choose an octet of men to be on my team. It actually wasn’t so difficult at first. There were three or four friends who made obvious candidates, and the eldest of my three younger brothers was the natural choice as best man (not least because he knows how to put on a party when he puts his mind to it). Another of my brothers was also a given (but the youngest is too young at seven years of age).
There remained three spots, and to fill them I resorted to a method that my fiancée didn’t understand, but I hope male readers will: I rolled the bones. Well, I did not literally use dice; I employed an online random number generator to choose two winners from the remaining candidates. Dorky, perhaps. Fair, definitely.
To my fiancée this appeared a heartless move, an abdication of emotional responsibility. But I said, why not? My method was fair, and it allows me to say to the gentlemen not chosen, “Tough luck, chaps, but your number just didn’t come up.” If promotions and suchlike operated that way, a lot of feelings would be spared.
(Also, losing means you can appear out of uniform, wearing whatever colour suit you want — green, even.)
The final argument I would make on my behalf is that luck is always a theme at weddings — “She makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world,” “We’re lucky to have found each other,” et cetera. Finding love really is all about being in the right place at the right time. (In our case the place/time was an event — and I’m not kidding — called the Drinks Show.)
Maybe the groom wears a tuxedo because all the talk of luck gives the proceedings a sort of a Casino Royale vibe.
In any event, speaking of good fortune, my fiancée went out and partied too hard on Saturday night with some work people, meaning she was — how shall I put this? — too unrested to drag me to a wedding show Sunday. Sometimes I think I really am the luckiest man in the world.
Image courtesy of Stevon.
