Went to the most beautiful wedding this weekend.
The ceremony was on the water’s edge in Montauk, Long Island, right as the sun set. The couple, both genetically blessed and stylish in their own right, knows every sexy, surfy person in the sexy-surfy-person mecca that is Montauk. And they both have good looking families. So that was the guest pool. The groom, an interior- and set designer, had put his artistic touches all over the grounds: a giant, wood x and o sculpture set, a simple, flower-bound, part-chuppa, part teepee (a chuppee?), and other details I’m sure I missed because I always miss the visuals.
Altogether, a wedding made of Instagram dreams.
And, beautiful on an emotional level, because the bride and groom are lovely people and seem so right together. That sounds trite, but it’s hard not to when describing a wedding. (And I’m getting lazy, because I’m just trying to get to the part about me.)
The most beautiful part for me? I cried!
I love it when a wedding gets me misted up, because it feels so appropriate. So human. Like I’m not a bloodless sociopath.
Normally, I don’t cry at appropriate times.
I don’t cry at funerals. I don’t cry for the pain of humanity. I don’t cry at Sally Struthers crying for starving children.
Unlike my mom and dad, who’ll blow their noses for 90 minutes over Madea Goes To Jail, I don’t cry at movies.
I never cried at camp when the half-term people left and all the other kids were wailing and ululating. Except one year, when a counselor yelled at me for taking two desserts, and I pretended I was crying because some older camper whom I barely knew was leaving. “Waaa-aaaa-aaa-aaa, [HICCUP, HICCUP] I was just getting to know Jenny!!! And now she’s leeeavvvinnnnng!”
So when do I cry?
I cry when I’m told “no” or “you’re late.”
I cry when talking to a person of authority, like a teacher or boss or crowd-control cop. “What do you mean, I can’t cross here? I LIVE ON THIS BLOCK! THE PARADE DOESN’T EVEN START TILL SIX! [SOB]”
I cry when I’m trying to take back a purchase and the person at the counter tells me it’s too late and they’ll only give me store credit.
Most of all, all my life, I’ve cried in electronic stores.
As a pavlovian response to having cried there before, I used to cry every time I walked into Golden Sound, a small, pre-Best-Buy-era shop on the Upper West Side. All my conversations with them went like this:
HIM: “I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s store policy. I have no choice.”
ME: “I’m sorry, I have trouble believing that. You’re the owner. You have NO CHOICE? Do you know how many Walkmans I’ve bought from you? All my Walkmans. And all my headphones. I got these folding ones here. I’M A [SNIFF] LIFELONG CUSTOMER! I guess [SOB] I’ll have to go somewhere else for my electronics from now on. Which is [SOB] too bad because [SOB] I spend [SOB, SOB, SOB] practically all my money on electronics!”
I don’t have that conversation any more, because what’s a Walkman, but I’ve had versions of it at the Apple Genius Bar.
ME: “Really? [SOB] You’re going to charge me to repair the circuit board when I’ve been buying Apple products since [SOB] 1981?”
HIM: “I wasn’t even born then.”
Because I feel it looks extra foolish to try and hold back the tears and pretend you’re not crying, I now announce, “I’m so upset, I’m going to cry.”
Doesn’t make me look any less ridiculous.
But I was totally normal crying at the wedding. And it was beautiful.
When do you cry?
Do you cry at normal times? Or are you like me?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS.