Simply the Best

We’re all familiar with the woe-is-me saying “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” Sisters, I feel your pain. I’m 42 and single, but you know, I’m not even talking about that. Screw being the groom—I would be the ideal best man. The best best man!

Want a bachelor party? I am always planning some sort of event: farewell happy hours, blood drives, high school reunions—you name it. I’m responsible like that. And I would keep things classy.

I will get fitted for formal wear in a timely manner, and be just as punctual returning the tux.

Give a toast? I was born to toast. I’ve been doing stand-up since junior high, radio since high school, emceeing shows since my mid-20’s… I am very, very comfortable in front of a microphone. That, combined with the witty-slash-sappy brand of nostalgia I’ve perfected here at Salt in Wound headquarters, and I’m clearly the one you want to stand up from the dais and politely ask for a few minutes of everyone’s attention. They will laugh, they will cry.

But for one reason or another, it just hasn’t panned out. Oh, I’ve been a groomsman, don’t get me wrong: at my sister’s wedding; for some skinny British cruise-ship employee who didn’t know many people in the U.S. but whose bride was a friend from high school; for my friend Bob; for my friend David; for my friend Mike; for my friend Jeff.

I was even a bridesmaid for my friend Sarah. (No, wiseguy, they didn’t make me wear a dress.)

I signed a ketubah for Andrew.

On a farm I read a poem. (Rilke, I think.) But Todd and Evie didn’t want the Man to define their relationship. So that was a “lovefest,” not a wedding.

I’ve had a couple of almosts. For my friend Jimmy I was… something. It was at the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture. There wasn’t a meal. There wasn’t a best man.

In Hawaii for my friend Jim, it was a small affair on the beach. There were two of us on the groom’s side, with undefined roles. I had to buy an aloha shirt and linen pants. We stood facing away from the water, in brutal direct sunlight. I was a sweaty man. But not the best man.

Seemed destined to be my friend Joe’s best man. He has two brothers. (That’s the ideal scenario for a friend to slide into the coveted best-man slot.) Alas, Joe eloped. To Hawaii, of course.

My friend Steve asked me to be his best man. Finally! The wedding would be held in Vancouver, where the bride was from. Never made it there. The engagement fell through.

There’s a stretch of years when you’re invited to a lot of weddings. Several summer vacations in a row were planned around friends’ nuptials. Then you get a little older, and the invites come with less frequency. Likewise, the odds of being dubbed best man keep decreasing. But dreams die hard; you can’t give up hope.

This past summer my friend Sean asked if I’d be his best man. (Two brothers!) I’d walk up the aisle and hold the ring. There’d be a toast and everything.

The wedding took place this past Sunday. An absolutely beautiful event—on a boat!—and it went off without a hitch. Ceremony, cocktail hour, passed apps, meal, cake, dancing, toasts. I was Sean’s best man. My wish had come true… sort of. You see, it was a gay wedding. So there were two best men. Son of a…!

I don’t want to be “a” best man; I want to be “the.” To quote Twisted Sister: If that’s your best, your best won’t do.

I can only hope the inevitable wave of second marriages brings about some fresh opportunities. Or even marriages of convenience—call me; I’m not proud. And my current measurements are on file at the local After Six retailer.