I've hit one more milestone to remind me I'm no longer young -- the weddings I get invited to don't star my friends but the next generation -- their children, who, amazingly, are no longer children but full-fledged adults of the marrying age. I remember the thrill of weddings in my twenties -- there I was, at a grown-up party, with all of my best friends, taking the first giant step into real adulthood. But after I had paid for my tenth bridesmaid gown and danced to "Celebrate!" for the twentieth time (which, in fact, was always fun), I was out of money and energy to put into someone else's life -- I was ready to get off the wedding circuit. Then, the cyclical clock of life stepped in and I got my wish. For another twenty years or so, my friends and I lived our adult lives, married or not, with a wedding invitation arriving rarely -- a distant much younger cousin, a friend who had divorced and was trying it again.
Now, in my mid-fifties, with a next generation growing up all around me, ready themselves to step up as adults, the weddings have returned. Like swallows in the spring, they come with music, an excited buzz and a sense of hope. I'm ready to be invited back to the party.
Last year was the first big one -- my niece Becky, the oldest grandchild in our family, walked down a sandy aisle on Singer Island in West Palm Beach, where she grew up, to marry her tall, muscular prince of a best friend, Jonathan.
Next month I'm invited to one here in Maine -- my friend Barby's daughter Dalit will tie the knot at her dad's house in Harpswell.
And this past weekend I went to another, a black tie chi-chi affair on the Boston waterfront, although it doesn't quite fit the pattern. Yes, Missy, and her new husband Eric, are of the younger generation, right around thirty -- I'm definitely old enough to be her mother. But I'm only an acquaintance of her parents -- I, in fact, made the bride's guest list. She's a great friend and West Palm Beach high school classmate of my niece, the recently married Becky. Over the years, I, and my two sisters, through trips we all made between Florida, Massachusetts and Maine, watched Becky and Missy grow up together. There were parties and meals out and dinner table conversations. We dragged Missy's oversized suitcase "Gertrude" up the steps of my house in Maine and I went to see her perform as the lead in a Cape Cod playhouse performance of Sunday in the Park with George. Eventually both she and Becky moved to Boston, a mile away from each other with my house almost exactly in between. I was almost "one of the girls" for the couple of years we all overlapped.
When her big day rolled around, Missy chose to include us in her wedding extravaganza -- all of us: Becky's parents -- Lynn and Keith, along with my sister Nancy and her husband, and me. It helped, obviously, that her father, the infamous Al Jerome, has a very thick wallet. But I loved being included, mostly because it took me back to a long ago time -- I felt younger, yes (especially when the adorable -- if married -- 35 year old at our table took me for a spin on the dance floor -- woo-hoo!), but also filled with lightness and hope, just as I did watching my twenty-something friends marry so many years ago.
The five of us were like teenagers as we dressed for the wedding, trying on shoes to go with our floor length dresses, trading necklaces and earrings to achieve just the right look. Standing on the steps of my sister Nancy's apartment, we took at least 25 pictures of us in our finery, as excited as if we were heading to the prom and just as likely to be late. But we made it on time, danced and celebrated, thrilled to be a little older, sending off a young friend into the adult world of hope and love.
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