Along with Graham, Barry, and Jenna, Our Bold Hero went to Des Moines this weekend to attend Adam and Betsy's wedding.



I've known Adam since second grade; he's what Joseph Epstein would call a "fossil friend" — more on that in a later post — and in point of fact he's my oldest friend. I've known Graham for almost as long, fourth grade if I'm not mistaken, but our friendship took a sabbatical when the old blowhard moved away for a few years.

Our families go to church together, my younger brother Matt is friends with both Adam and his cousin Ally, and my youngest brother Josh has been romantically "linked" to Ally's sister, though I suspect that's just a cover for some sort of land deal.

Years and years ago Adam and I went to camp together, and more recently we used to sit around with Jenna having discussions of variable loftiness and playing a game I've since dubbed "Jenna ping-pong." If you knew me in high school it should come as no surprise that our parents apparently thought we were drinking or doing drugs or making bootleg DVDs or something, but no.

That was the summer after freshman year, and recently I've seen Adam less frequently, but like good fossil friends, we're usually able to pick up right where we left off. As far as I can tell, Jenna is the only Brainerdite who's kept in regular contact with Adam; presumably she was only a Y-chromosome away from joining his wedding party.

This was the second wedding where I've been on the "inside," a situation which naturally invites comparisons between the two events. Adam (and Our Bold Hero, if we're being honest) has always been known for a certain haphazardness, and though everything worked out and was in fact great, this wedding seemed much more casual than the Politician's.

(There's a sense in which Bill and Beth always seemed destined not only to get married but also to plan a wedding. They were just so into it. I picture charts and graphs and scale-model figurines.)

It was very weird having nothing to do except show up, but truth be told I failed at even that. I'd picked up my tux, and I was ironing my pants for the wedding rehearsal when a thought occurred. And by occurred, I mean Jenna said this:

Am I supposed to be at the church right now?

I was forty minutes late, which as luck and character would have it was only a little later than the groom. You know, they say every wedding needs at least one thing to go wrong.

Unlike the Politician's wedding, this one seemed to have no implicit ranking determining the order of the bridal party (I could feel honored, but I couldn't "win"), so being late meant an added responsibility: my bridesmaid and I would be last in line, and the first to walk down the aisle the next day. Which we rocked at, by the bye.

The rehearsal dinner, with Jenna and good food and sparkling dinnertable conversation, was uneventful. I love wearing a suitcoat with no tie.

Oh! I have a combination watch/moneyclip now. Somewhere.

That night, after trying and failing to find our original destination, we ended up in the Flying Carp Cafe, an awesome basement bar with mounted fish on the wall. Des Moines also boasts a bar called el Bait Shop, and a "famous" taco place called Tasty Tacos.


Clearly, I have underestimated Des Moines. The only stereotype that survived the weekend was my prejudice against terrible Iowa drivers. You see, in Minnesota, the left lane is for passing. I know, it's crazy.

There's also, I suppose, my belief that every Midwestern state needs a few towns named after much more famous places but pronounced all funky. Wisconsin has Medina (Med-ine-uh) and Berlin (Brrln); Iowa has Nevada (Nev-aid-uh).

The next morning — the ceremony was at 11 — I arrived at the church an hour before the rest of the groomsmen. There were pictures; I have no good smile, though I've been told that my smirk is dashing. And the tuxes were pretty sharp. I talked to the photographer, who will have the pictures from Adam's wedding on her website in a few weeks.

The wedding ceremony, a full Catholic mass, brought back a lot of memories, but emboldened by the presence of one heathen and one born-and-raised or "natural" atheist among the other groomsmen, I decided against taking Communion. Kind of a pointed way to demonstrate my atheism, especially since my dad was one of the Communion servers, but it was time to have the courage of my convictions.

I also think it's more respectful to the actual believers when the rest of us sit out Communion, rather than feigning belief and committing sacrilege for good measure. Then again, according to one of my apologetics teachers, you can't fool Jesus. He'll transubstantiate that host right back to bread if you don't believe.

It was weird, but also fun and exciting, to see Adam married. Standing in line next to the bride and groom as they said their vows, you could feel this soft electricity radiating outward. I craned my neck to see what was going on.

However, I think it only really hit me at the reception, when a fellow groomsman came up, pulled up my collar, and said that our friend is getting married! We should be drunk!

Celebrate, get drunk, we did, though I never felt the enormity of the day; it didn't seem like there would be any substantial break with the past here, though of course I wasn't the one getting married. At most, this wedding, the first wedding for that core group of friends that I've been to, foreshadows a time when we'll all be getting married, or at least getting our acts together. I don't know if I'm eager for that time or frightened by it.

I danced briefly with the bride during the dollar dance, chatted a few times with some of the guys I'd met at the bachelor party, and cut up the dance floor with Jenna to the general amusement of all. When the party ended, I said my goodbye to Adam, who of course I'll see again.