My big sister got married on Saturday. As she wasn’t entirely joking when she called the groom “the favorite son” of his small town, and the wedding was there, you can imagine that it was quite a large event. The bride, sometimes called ‘She of Many Lists’, organized the whole thing herself, which I, veteran of the approximately 85-guest simplified wedding, imagine as something along the lines of organizing an Armada to take over England. There were programs, favors, and little pairs of apples (the town’s claim to fame) wrapped in tulle as presents for out-of-town guests. There were microphones for the ceremony, a DJ and dinner for the reception, tuxes not only for the groom and groomsmen, but also for the fathers of the bride and groom. And to top the entire thing off and leave us all gaping at her inhuman efficiency and thoughtfulness, her gift to each of the bridesmaids was a beautiful scrapbook full of pictures and thoughts on our years together. Oh yeah, seven bridesmaids. As a not entirely responsible bridesmaid myself, I can only imagine that having seven of me demanding attention, answers, and things to do to feel helpful must be less like herding cats and more like herding dragonflies.

Despite the awesome scope of the wedding and the intricacies of logistics involved, the wedding came off beautifully. By dint of muttering “Chris Rock” (apparently, the antithesis of sentimentality) to herself and others, the bride managed to hold off the majority of tears until partway through the ceremony. At this I scoffed, it being my opinion that if you just get waterproof eye makeup to begin with, you can weep freely throughout. I am an advocate of the good cry. There were some microphone problems during the opening speech by the officiants (our dear godparents), which my husband later noted coincided with the sound guy messing with things at his amp or whatever (Matt knows all about this stuff. I only know I wanted to hear the speech, not loud popping sounds and intermittent silence.) I did not realize it was the sound guy’s fault at the time, which is good, as thus I neither discovered whether a man may be killed with a tasteful bridesmaid’s bouquet of gerbera daisies, nor made a scene at my sister’s wedding.

As I’m sure you’re all dying to know, my song went very well. I was lucky enough to get to sing the whole thing at the rehearsal, which meant that I went out there, sang, noticed all the things I wished I hadn’t done, and then got heaps of praise on my ‘imperfect’ performance. It rather put things in perspective, and I was free to focus, on the day itself, on singing with feeling and attempting to utilize natural-looking hand movements (as I began music with a handy instrument to hide behind, my default performance posture is “doll’s mouth opens and closes as it sings”). Then I had to make a toast at the reception, which fact I of course remembered a month ago, resolved to plan for, remembered two weeks ago, cursed my previous absent-mindedness, and then remembered the night before and the day of, putting me standing up in front of well nigh 250 people with a glass of champagne in my hand, two pithy sentences worked out, and a general theme to work with. I was shocked that this went well. I am shocked that I was shocked, as, I confess, it’s what I did for my other gig as Matron of Honor, and that seemed to work out well, too. Maybe it’s one of those naughty little traits, like writing my best analytical essays the night before they are due.

At any rate, my beloved sis is wed and sped off to Maui, and I am left with a tear-spotted turquoise silk cocktail dress, slightly aching dancing feet, and a purple photo album that opens on two faces close together — a brown-haired little girl leaning in to kiss the cheek of a tiny, confused, squinting dark-haired baby. I love you, sister.