THE SONIC BOOMER
I absolutely hate it that I had to miss Matthew and Shelley’s wedding. There’s so much misery and so many must-dos in the world that it’s nice to take the time to share some joy. And I knew this was coming.
When they met, Shelley lived on Florida’s west coast and Matthew lived in Royal Palm Beach. They commuted for a while, and then Shelley moved here. They clicked beautifully and decided to tie the knot.
We got the invitation several weeks ago, via a phone call to Mark. When he hung up, he told me the news — at least, news as he sees it. “Matthew and Shelley are getting married.”
“That’s great! When?”
“April 26.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Indoors or out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daytime or dusk?”
“I don’t know.”
Since Mark was able to attend, I got an update about once a day. Unfortunately, the data contained in those updates was similar to the data regarding the announcement.
“We’re heading out for a pre-wedding dinner.”
“How fun! Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s attending?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Shelley excited?”
“I guess.”
The night of the wedding itself, Mark called on his way home. Finally, some real news.
“So how did it go?”
“It went great.”
“Where was it?”
“On the ocean. Boats went by.” (Consider this a paragraph.)
“So where’s the reception?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going there now.”
The odd thing is, I know Mark had a wonderful time. He is a very observant person and will have noticed what Shelley wore, what Matthew wore, what everyone else wore, what was said by whom to whom, how the flowers looked and what the children in attendance were doing. He will have enjoyed several excellent meals in gorgeous surroundings and, maybe two years from now, he will describe one of the celebratory salads to me when he sees a similar salad elsewhere.
Here’s what would have happened had our roles been reversed;
Me: “Matthew and Shelley are getting married.”
Mark: “That’s great! When?”
Me: “April 26, on a dock in North Palm Beach. Everyone is dressing formally but in bare feet, to be playful. The minister from their church will preside, and his wife will play a harpsichord that a friend of theirs is going to be hauling onto the dock in trailer. There will be 12 children dressed as flower girls and ring bearers and they are going to march out two-by-two, holding hands. Shelley will wear Oscar de la Renta; Matthew will be in Armani. Flowers of Worth Avenue has already been contacted, and Hoffman’s Chocolate is practically catering the reception.”
When I arrived, I would keep Mark apprised of the happenings via text.
Me: “We’re heading out for a pre-wedding dinner. Shelley is so excited, and so is Matt. They can’t wait to change their statuses on Facebook. Shelley’s dad came in this afternoon. He finally finished building his cabin and brought photos to show everyone. It’s awesome. Everyone is so happy.”
The night of the wedding itself, I’d call Mark because, finally, I’d have some real news. Unfortunately, this news will have been laced with reception-grade alcohol making my rendition worse than his.
Mark: “So how did the wedding go?”
“It wen’ great. Boats wen’ by!”
“And where was the reception?”
“I forget. Wan’ me to go look ou’side and look at the sign? Wait! Here comes the choc’late. ’Bye!”
Maybe two years from now, I will see a salad similar to one served at the reception and I will say, “Have we been here before? I distinctly remember having that salad.”
Our intra-marital communication may be breaking down, but at least we accept it. We have to. We’re married.
