A secret toast for Mr. and Mrs. Christina Richard Corrigan Suchenski

I find it difficult to admit to the meaningfulness of Christina's wedding today, even to the day's worth and week's income of shopping in preparation, and to the excitedness that prevented me from falling asleep last night until 4:30 as testament to such meaningfulness.

I find it difficult, because I feel like I don't have the right, necessarily, to consider it meaningfully. Though we've never been distant, we've never been close ... we were not really given the chance -- as is the fate of many "third culture" kinships -- and so I find it awkward to even acknowledge within myself that I love the girl and only wished I could have loved her more, if we'd had the occasion past the age of 16.

[A tearful Christina, decadent and delicate and strong and the perfect picture of poise and elegance -- shit, do I need to go on?! -- finally emboldens herself to make her appreciation speech after dining and "the first dance" (= superlatively cute giggling shuffle). I likewise shuffle shyly to the end of the hugging line -- again, I feel almost embarrassed, like a secret admirer, a vintage Buggy, a non-ideal memory. I cry too, but this time I surprise myself, for the emotions are not fully of admiration or tenderness as they had been earlier in the day during ceremonies and pretty pictures, but also in part of lostness and the sore acknowledgement of mortal happinesses. I am glad to be overwhelmed like this, because it means I can still feel -- I'm just a little embarrassed, because I don't want to seem inappropriately affectionate. I want to be at an inconspicuous temperature -- warm enough, not cold, not hot. She's not God -- she'll swallow me lukewarm. Isn't lukewarm the path to peace, anyhow? Surely the Bible gets a little extreme?

I am not alone, obviously, in these sentiments. Wedding ceremonies, particularly one that is as graceful and pure as this one was -- quoting Richard's grandmother: "I can't think of two people more deserving of happiness" -- can be a tortuous experiment in self-control of self-contemplation/lamentation. I'm not speaking of jealousy, although this is what it may initially feel like. I am speaking of ... a challenge of faith. Does this really exist? Will it exist for me? Has it, and I missed it? I am not speaking directly of loneliness, that entirely self-centric exercise, but I am speaking from the vantage point of being exhausted by self-rule and lack of companionship. Of needing to love, of needing someone to talk to and to massage the metatarsals of. Maybe I am speaking of aging -- a tear or two felled on my cheek was surely of Peter Pan weeping for the fact that we must, indeed, grow up/away/apart.]

We signified something important for each other, even in distance. My mistake was that I avoided the hurt of that distance, and therefore of that very importance, by busying myself away from it. Hers was that she never told me that she needed me, though based on my own uprooting, I should have known. But we were young.

We didn't grow apart, for as I said, we weren't "close" -- we were equals. We were of equal intensity. Maybe if we'd had more time, we would have gotten more fed up with each other and actually had a fight, and I would have told her how I didn't understand why she worked so hard until she was alone, and she would have bitingly asked me back why I worked so hard at pleasing other people. This would have been a fun battle.

We didn't grow apart, but into our autonomous selves, which were already a generation more autonomous than most when we met in the first place. You were the closest thing to a real friendship I had in those years. You were the closest thing I had to a best friend. We were partners through our mutual passion, and friends in our non-adherence to superficialities. (OK, so there was Harry's -- but even then, we were trying to be deep.) Perhaps we don't really know each other, as you say, Christina, but we know ourselves. I'm never performing when I'm around you. I've always held you in reverence for the simple fact that someone like you existed so strongly that it made me want to fight harder for the strength of my own existence. Today, I've gotten a much fuller glimpse of what you have meant to the family you have just joined to your own, and there too it's by the sheer force of your integrity.

Oh? That's right, this is my secret toast to both bride and groom.
Richard, I am playing Carla Bruni on my computer now, since I heard it on your reception playlist, and laugh hearing the lyrics:
"L'amour ... um um ... pas pour moi / L'amour, ca pour rien." I laugh, because I have to presume that this is Christina's selection! I laugh, because I'm glad you evidently have a sense of humor, a proven resilience to her resistance, and an intellect the size of a small planet to keep the relationship growing. I laugh because I am so happy for the security you have found in each other that uplifts my life and gives me hope that we all meet our match in the end.

To: Christina and Richard!