I have been the Best Man at a wedding a time or two. It was an important job and I was pretty good at it. I knew my role, I knew what to do next, breezed through the rehearsals and handled everything with total aplomb.
I never really liked the receiving line thing. I admit to bagging out on it all but once. And I was never one to stand with the other single men, waiting to catch the garter.
If I had, I know that I would have been in big, big trouble, largely because I shouldn’t really be standing around with a bunch of bachelors when I’m a married guy.
Especially a just married guy. Yes, I was the bridegroom at these shindigs. I was, after all, the Best Man at my wedding. I never understood why the friend was referred to as the Best Man. If he truly is, then he should be the one taking the hit for the team and saying all the “till death do us part” stuff.
He is, in fact, the Next Best Man. This term popped out one day at some guy’s bachelor party. As is often the case, my piratical self was somewhere where there was a party going on, and not being one to ever miss a good party, I sauntered over to the gaggle of guys gathered.
Whenever you see a bunch of guys drinking together and making lots of toasts, you know that they are 1) a bachelor party, or 2) a bunch of gay buddies out on the town. The difference between the two can be rather hard to discern, too, for both of these groups look extremely 1) happy, 2) chummy, and 3) drunk on their ass.
It was at one of these gaggles that the Next Best Man came to be. Some guy said he was the bridegroom. He then introduced me to the Best Man. I said, “Oh, the Next Best Man,” and it got a huge laugh.
While I have indeed been the Best Man several times, I have never been called on to be the Next Best Man. I’m not even sure I’ve been an usher. And I know I’ve never been a ring bearer or flower girl, at least in the traditional sense. I carried my own rings, thank you very much.
It’s not that I haven’t had friends of the matrimonial minded variety. I have even been the best friend of one or two who were ready to take the leap. But things fell through for one reason or another. If I recall, the one friend’s wife decided she wanted a wife of her own and the other got caught sowing his seeds in someone else’s garden of love just before the weeding, uh, wedding.
I was never formally asked to become the Next Best Man, largely because these events happened before any real concrete plans could be made, at least as far as naming the name of the next best guy.
It’s not that I’m complaining about not being the Next Best Man, a groomsman or any other member of the bridal party, except that of the bridegroom.
I’m not really into all the finery of weddings. Don’t get me wrong, I love weddings, obviously. I just don’t hold onto the trappings of more formal weddings, you know, the 13 bridesmaids and the matching set of groomsmen, the posh ceremony that cost more than my last two cars put together, the ritzy reception with the zillion dollar cake that doesn’t taste any better than one I could pick up at Costco on a Saturday morning… you know what I’m talking about.
While every bride seems to dream about these things all their lives, and perhaps even an occasional bridegroom does too, I doubt a Next Best Man ever dreams of the day when he’ll stand up for his best drinking buddy and give him away to some hussy in a white dress who will make sure their all-nighters in the bars become a thing of the past.
It makes me wonder what kind of Next Best Men these guys truly are. I’ve only had one set of Next Best Men, outside of my son who was with me the last go round. They were my two brothers, and well, they were bent on my joining them in wedded bliss at all costs. They were hoping my wife would be just like theirs – a bit controlling and shrewish – so they were more than happy to stand up for me.
It was all for naught. My now ex-whatever was never that way, and it wasn’t long before greener pastures called, if you get my drift, and not only did I get rid of the ex, but the Next Best and Next Next Best Man as well in the deal.
I certainly know that I would have never let a true Best Man take the vow if I thought he could have done better. Now that time has passed, and hopefully the statute of limitations, I can admit that a couple of their choices weren’t exactly stellar. Oh, sure, as the Next Best Man you’re supposed to serve as the wingman for your fellow dude and tell them they are doing the right thing, but I always found that pretty hard to do.
I guess it’s because no one ever did it for me. In fact, perhaps I should have had a Next Best Man this last go around who wasn’t seven years old. He could have taken me aside and slapped some sense into me. I know that Parker, now that he is 14 and a little more worldly, would have taken on the task with great relish today.
As for me, my days as a Next Best Man are behind me. But being the Best Man, one just never knows…
In the Emerald City, making lots of vows (revenge, celibacy, mawwaige?),
– Robb