Better Man…

rogue

The weekend flew by all too quickly…Monday has arrived too soon.

I’m not ready to be corporate-friendly just yet…but I’ve gotta pay the mortgage and feed my dog Bodhi…

Yes, I have a case of the Mondays…it’s true.

This was one of those weekends where I was so wrapped up in big events, I barely had a moment to relax–to decompress.

I officiated a wedding this weekend…

I wrote a lovely ceremony, got a haircut, showed up in a suit…it went well enough. It’s interesting witnessing a wedding from this vantage point…where you don’t know the families; you’re on the outside of every inside joke…

Everytime I do one of these,though,  it reminds me  how often I’ve been screwed in most every wedding I’ve ever been a part of, outside of officiated as a man of the cloth. (my cloth is full of holes)

This cycle of screw began about fifteen years ago at the hands of my sister.

I love my sister. Growing up she was a good influence and a bad influence, my biggest supporter, and an evil maniacal torturer. She forced me to do skits with her, she traded me a rock for all my toys, she manipulated me into becoming a voluntary slave. Ours was a normal brother-sister relationship. We’ve never shared a true animosity toward one another, just the temporary hatred one develops after being tricked into many an embarrassing event–the surface rage that ultimately turns into the warmest, funniest memories we share.

Growing up with an older sister had its advantages; she was able to share an insight on the fairer sex that I could not find in a locker room or by trial and error. I believe growing up with an older sister made me a more caring and sensitive human being.

Plus she had some pretty hot friends.

What I have with my sister I wouldn’t trade for the world.

But.

Having a sister means being an usher at a wedding. It means you get put to work. No toasts, no dances, no nothing. Just an itchy tuxedo and the dubious honor of walking old people down the aisle and telling them where to sit.

Were she an older brother, I would have been best man.

I’ve always been jealous of my friends who have brothers. The relationship they share is something special–something different. Inherent best friends, they have a bond like no other. Some of my best friends in the world have brothers close enough in age to ensure that I’ll always be number 2 on the list. It’s amazing to see them together, the love hate-relationship multiplied by a thousand. A bond that only they understand.

I watch my friend Steve with his (3) brothers, and I’m consumed with jealousy for the bond they share.–like they’re all in on some joke the rest of us will never get.

I watch my close friend Mike and his brother Eric, and see two men who have grown up taking care of one another, helping one another become greater than they were.

My best friend, the one who’s a real asshole and a heartless bastard (see previous posts), has traversed the world with me. We walked on fire together and expanded our minds. He was standing right next to me when we paid the small, possibly homeless child a dollar to electrocute us with a car battery, while on a tequila binge in Mexico.

But.

His brother was his best man.

Pretty much every shot I’ve had at being someone’s best man is blown by virtue of brotherhood.

I have one last chance, one more best friend left that is still unwed. Another friend I’ve been through hell and back with, a true friend with whom I’ve expanded my horizons through dripping ceilings and cosmic tracers. Who I’ve shared my fears and discovered a part of myself within.

Like me, he grew up with sisters.

But he’ll most likely return stateside already married, and my final chance for a pewter flask or a touching speech at the reception are all but vapor.

I’m probably the acme of fools for regretting something nobody has control over. Regretting never growing up with that bond. It’s not my parent’s fault. They didn’t get to choose what sex Their children would be. But it’s still something I’ll never have, regardless.

Perhaps that’s why my friendships have been so important to me. Perhaps that’s why I’d take a bullet for any of them in a heartbeat.

We may not have the same blood coursing through our veins, but in many respects we’re brothers. Brothers of another mother, but brothers nonetheless.

The bonds I share with my best friends are unbreakable, our devotion to one another unflappable. We’ve had our ups and downs just as blood relatives might, we’ve been there for the biggest and smallest events of one another’s lives.

So maybe I do understand that bond, without even really comprehending it. Maybe I’m missing something that I’ve had for more than 15 years.

But I’ll still never be the best man.

Guess that means I’m the better man.

That means I’ve gotta buy my own damn flask.

betterman

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3 Responses to “Better Man…”

  1. Schillbabe Says:

    Wow! I never knew you had so many conflicted feelings about your sister’s wedding. Perhaps your lack of the spotlight makes you a better officiant of weddings now?

    Your sister’s wedding really was lovely though, wasn’t it?

    Ciao!

    P.S. I totally would have let you give a toast if you’d been my little brother 😉

  2. lola luna Says:

    Yeah, know your feelings, as I am in the same situation, great post.

  3. 5ive. « Viciousblog's Weblog Says:

    […] An essay about a flask. […]

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