Save the Date: The Occasional Mortifications of a Serial Wedding Guest

by Jen Doll

  He found my e-mail, and later that day, I received a message from him. His flight had been canceled due to electrical storms. He would be in town for another night. Did I want—did I have the inclination, or the energy, if I wasn’t too tired—to hang out again? I did, thankful for these magical electrical storms that seemed fated to be, meaning perhaps everything about this new person in my life was fated, too. I wrote back with faux casualness, for some god-awful reason, “Let’s totally hang.” To prove (ironically) that I was really someone worth his time, I included a link to an article that quoted something I’d written about Boo, the so-called World’s Cutest Dog, who, it was being Internet-alleged, might only have achieved his fame because his owner worked for Facebook. In a cuckoo-crazy world, good things were afoot.

  That night was a strange kind of second date, our conversations extending further into what-if and how-could territory than any regular second date with two locally based participants would ever demand, yet with the understanding that we had no idea what, exactly, we were going to do about all this, or if we even should. We said that if we lived in the same town, of course we would date. We talked about how there was clearly a connection between us, something that people don’t find every day. If nothing else, we should be “friends forever,” we decided. But I didn’t really want to be his friend, not just his friend, if what I could be was something more. I think—I guess—he felt the same way. When he left the next day to catch his flight to Los Angeles, and then Seattle, he had both my e-mail and my phone number. And unlike the guy who’d never contacted me again, he did call, over and over again, in the beginning texting first, a gesture that endeared him to me still further. “Is this a good time to talk?” he’d ask, and I’d write, “Yes,” or “Sure!” or “Of course,” or even “.”

  Each night we talked, and every morning I’d wake to an e-mail from him that was the closest thing to a love letter I’d ever received. He’d tell me about his life up to that point and things that mattered to him, large and small, explaining who he was and the kind of person he wanted to be. I would write back, attempting to do the same, inspired by his openness and intelligence and heart. Some part of me still conflicted about our age difference, I described him to friends as a “Seattle twenty-six,” as opposed to a “New York twenty-six,” which meant, in my mind, more mature, more commitment-ready, just a better guy than a lot of the New Yorkers I’d dated. I mean, he had a dog. Guys with dogs were inherently better and more grown-up than those without, and I was more of a “Seattle twenty-six” than a “Seattle thirty-six,” anyway, I reasoned—whatever that meant. A close friend who’s known me through many a relationship and had previously categorized me as only dating “Option A: reliable, good on paper, utterly boring” or “Option B: batshit crazy” shouted with glee, “You’ve found Option C!”

  The relationship, because that’s what it was, we admitted, that’s what it was going to be, and that’s what we wanted it to be, took root and started to grow. Despite the geographical and age-related odds, it felt natural, even easy, in need of watering by way of phone calls, texts, and plane tickets, all of which seemed doable and an investment well worth what we got in return. I felt calm instead of panicky, peaceful instead of nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for those shoes to end up, against my rational will, halfway down the street. I had not forgotten that things can be destroyed faster than they can be built. On weekend mornings I’d lie in bed after I’d woken, letting myself luxuriate in how much I liked this person, how it seemed he liked me back, and how it felt like I might finally know enough to do things right this time. I hoped we weren’t fooling ourselves, but I didn’t want to know if we were. It felt too good, this Option C.

  The day came that I ran into that other guy, the one I’d dated briefly who had surely thrown out my face wash long ago. I knew I’d see him again. New York can be as provincially small as it is an impenetrable monolith. I was heading to a bar for after-work drinks with my boss, and the two of us were deep in conversation. When Face Wash got so close he had to say something, he did, waving at the both of us: “Hey guys,” I think it was, along with a shrug of acknowledged awkwardness. My boss knew the whole tale and had told me, over previous drinks, that it was for the best that this relationship had ended. There’d be someone far better, he had predicted optimistically. “Oh, hi,” we responded in unison to my erstwhile man-friend, and without pausing, returned to each other. We walked for several blocks as if nothing had happened until my boss finally interrupted: “I feel I should say something. Was that okay? That was okay, right? Because it felt okay.”

  “Totally,” I said. And it was totally okay, it was better than okay. Sometimes feeling nothing about someone else is the best feeling of all. The only better feeling is standing on the precipice of infinite possibility with someone new.

  • • •

  Right after Will and I had first met, I had drinks with a friend who was visiting from out of town. We were talking about dating and love and marriage, and she said, “You know, I never understood why we’re supposed to wait for the wedding to have the honeymoon. We should have the honeymoon first, get to know each other and relax and have a good time. Later, get married and, whatever, take a trip after that if you want. But have the honeymoon first! We should all get the honeymoon, regardless of the wedding.” I’d told her about Will, and she leaned in and commanded with intensity, “Go on a honeymoon with him. Take the honeymoon.”

  I laughed. “I probably won’t pitch it that way,” I said, “but you’re right. We should go on a trip.” I texted him from the bar, bold with Grüner Veltliners, “I have a great idea! But I’ll have to tell you on the phone.” Later, when we did talk, I was nervous. Would it seem too forward to suggest we travel together, to assume that he’d want to spend money to go somewhere with me? I was definitely not going to say the word honeymoon, a promise I felt I could rely on myself to keep even after many glasses of wine. Still, wedding locales did pop up in my mind for our trip. Jamaica, where Lucy and David had gotten married, but that was a long, expensive flight from Seattle. The Dominican wouldn’t work, either, though an inn like the one I’d stayed at in Vermont with Jason would be cozy. Surely there was a location in the nearly three thousand miles between our two homes that would be ideal—a resort in Arizona, or we could try Austin, Texas. Something that would be right for us. I had butterflies, fearing that I’d take this risk, confess how I felt, and be rejected; worried I might push too hard and lose him entirely. I thought I knew him well enough that this would not be the case, but it had been absolutely no time at all for it to feel like, already, so much had changed.

  “What’s your idea?” he asked.

  “Oh . . . I . . . I don’t know. I’m embarrassed to say,” I stuttered, losing my nerve completely.

  “Tell me!” he said, encouraging.

  “Maybe we should go somewhere together,” I managed.

  “Yes,” he agreed, without hesitating. “I’m in.”

  Then it was logistics. We talked midpoints. Neither of us had unlimited funds or time. We started to scale back, deciding he should come to New York, and I should go to Seattle. They weren’t “honeymoon” spots, per se, only the humdrum places where we actually lived, but it made more sense, seemed less upending to our lives, and it would certainly be cheaper, with fewer concerns about bedbug infestations sustained from hotel stays or the availability of functional Wi-Fi if we had to work. And if we were ever to have a life together, someday, we should know how each other lived, like, really lived.

  “You know what,” he said, once we’d agreed he’d come to New York in early September, and I’d travel to Seattle after that. “I have a wedding in October, on the Olympic Peninsula.” He’d gone to college with the bride, who was an actress; the groom was a puppeteer. “It might be intense,” he warned me. “This is as close to a family wedding as I can have without family actually being involved . . . but if you do wan
t to come, I would be very happy.”

  How could I say no?

  • • •

  Much of the year it’s gray and drizzly in the Pacific Northwest. That, of course, is the weather it’s traditionally known for, all the better for habitual coffee-drinking and stocking cap–wearing and the Seattle Freeze, which, as Will’s friends explained to me on my first visit, is the local habit of being more coolly distant than anything else. After all, there’s no sense going to the trouble of actively befriending folks who aren’t going to stick around past the first spate of rain.

  But in early October, there is no freeze. It can be as beautiful then as it ever is, and this early October was the most beautiful of all. The sky was clear and brilliant blue with fluffy white clouds, a skillful child’s rendering of an atmospheric condition that rarely exists in nature. You could see to the mountains and beyond, and even beyond that, you could see the tip of snow-capped Mount Rainier. Unlike in New York, you could just see. We set off on a Friday into the horizon, to Max and Ava’s wedding. Getting to our destination involved a car ride, a boat ride, and more hours in the car, but even that seemed something to look forward to, all this alone time in which we were finally again together. Weeks ago he had, as promised, visited me in New York. We’d had as great a time as our first meeting, and I saw no reason this trip would not be more of the same.

  We made a stop for lunch, a shared salad and burgers in the sun, after we got off the ferry, and took a detour through winding roads to see Will’s childhood home. It was at the end of a dirt path on the edge of town, a place with its own barn that his mom and dad had built before they’d separated and moved to different houses in Los Angeles, before Will’s life became intrinsically divided. We parked there in the gravel driveway, and a sweet old brindled dog came to investigate, walking around the car, paying us only a fleeting sort of benign canine interest. “That looks like the same dog that lived nearby when I was growing up,” said Will. We were quiet for a minute and then were again on our way, leaving a cloud of dust and memories in our wake.

  It took a couple more hours to reach the former army base turned state park overlooking Puget Sound where the wedding would take place. We got the key to our quarters, a sprawling space with multiple rooms that used to be military housing and now, as wedding guest lodgings, would be shared with several of Will’s friends. We explored, claimed our bedroom, and waited for more people to arrive. The sun was just starting to set, and there were big-eyed gentle deer lingering around outside. We could hear the barking of seals echoing out above the water. It seemed we were in another world, to which we’d arrived via a fully enjoyable and borderline magical journey.

  Still, I was a bit nervous about this wedding. It was the only one I’d ever attended at which I’d known no one beyond my date, and he was a man I was just getting to know. I was hopeful about this relationship, and I wanted no repeats of disasters from weddings past: no thrown shoes, no thrown friendships, no clandestine cliff pukes, no nights ended in tears. I wanted this one to be, yes, perfect. It could be . . . couldn’t it?

  Will had tried to prepare me for what to expect. He’d gone to college with most of the people I’d meet. They were not only good friends but also many of them worked together as part of the theater company they’d founded in Seattle after college. This collective was, as he’d explained, the closest thing he had to family without actual blood ties, and because of that relationship, he was expected to do some things that wouldn’t be required of the typical wedding-goer. Some guests were performing at the rehearsal dinner, and others would contribute to the ceremony itself, but the main duty assigned to Will and a handful of his friends was on the morning of the wedding. They’d been asked to help set up the hall where the ceremony would be held later that afternoon. I said I’d help, too. I wanted to, not only for the brownie points, but, well, what else was I going to do? Hang out in the room and eat bonbons? I figured it couldn’t be that bad. It would be fast, and we’d be on our way to do more interesting things, and then to the wedding. Weddings were fun.

  The rehearsal dinner was held at a nearby VFW hall. It was a potluck with food prepared and brought in by friends and family. The event provided the expected wedding convergence of people and the ensuing confusion as well: meeting, hearing a name and forgetting it as soon as you hear the next, despite how diligently you try to come up with mnemonic devices. Will would occasionally disappear, talking to friends he hadn’t seen in years, while I spoke to strangers I was meeting for the first time. It felt natural, though. We were together but able to be apart as needed, and then we’d come back together again. I felt no pressure to be anything I was not among these other guests, who seemed pretty much exactly who they were, too, and who welcomed me. It probably helped that they all liked Will. (Wedding Tip: Choose your date wisely.)

  That night, there was a talent show. A married couple in a band played a song. A puppeteer friend did a routine. There were light shows about love and commitment and togetherness. Another group of friends and family sang a cappella. When the evening was over, a bunch of us went back to our big rented apartment and stayed up and drank for a while. A group of people ventured out on an exploratory mission to the lighthouse nearby, but Will and I went to bed, tired from the drive, knowing we had to get up early the next day. (Wedding Tip: Don’t ruin yourself on the first night.)

  The next morning we roused ourselves by nine, threw on clothes, and walked the short distance to the building where the ceremony and reception would be held that afternoon. Not stopping for coffee or food was a rookie mistake. It was cold in that room, and dark, the sun still too low in the sky to deliver much warmth or light to us inside. A handful of other guests were already there, standing around, waiting for direction. We jumped up and down and rubbed our hands together to take off the chill as we waited for someone to tell us what to do, idly chatting with the other helpers, wishing we were still in bed.

  There was a woman there who I later found out was the wedding planner. I also later found out she’d just had surgery and was on a lot of pain medication, which made me feel particularly bad about what happened next. She started giving orders, and everyone seemed to come to attention. She said, “Who wants to volunteer to stand on ladders and hang up these paper lanterns?” Someone volunteered, and another someone offered to help. “Who wants to put tablecloths and centerpieces on tables?” Two girls said they’d do it. Chore after chore was given out, but I didn’t volunteer. I figured I’d just help whoever needed help, that my status as date didn’t entitle me to jump in and claim an entire job all for myself. At the end of her delegation, the woman looked at me. “Are you here to help?” she asked, and, true or not, I detected accusation in her tone, a sniffiness to her demeanor. “Who are you?”

  There were many things I could have said to that, but what came out of my mouth was this: “Nah, I’m just here to watch.” It was one of those quips a person might later wish they’d thought of to say in the moment, but in my case, I wished I hadn’t. So much for brownie points, I thought, envisioning my upcoming memoir, Getting Off on the Wrong Foot: The Jen Doll Story. The wedding guests surrounding me burst out laughing, but the woman narrowed her eyes at me.

  “This is Jen,” said Will finally, and I said, brightly, “I’ll do tablecloths!” That seemed easy and not terribly dangerous, something at which I should be able to easily succeed and accomplish fairly quickly. Will started to help with another project, and the room buzzed with the activity of purposeful people.

  Within a half hour the tablecloths were laid out with nary a wrinkle, clusters of candles positioned across the white spreads, and we’d placed small decorative bags of battery-operated lights in the windowsills on both sides of the room for an appealing cross-twinkle later that evening. The matter of hanging the lanterns turned out to be a far more arduous one. The ladders available for stringing the paper globes to the ceiling were too short, and the string was not strong enoug
h to hold them; despite being paper, they were unexpectedly weighty. The plan that the bride and groom had laid out optimistically did not seem feasible in any form of reality. Gravity was a bitch. We tried, though, we really tried—or at least, the members of the theater company tried. They were used to technical difficulties, and, one by one, each person threw out a new plan to solve the problem. Though these solutions, one after another, failed, no one seemed frustrated. They just kept trying. I stayed busy and attempted to be helpful by doing odd jobs, menial things necessary to the completion of bigger tasks that I had no idea how to tackle. I strung lanterns together, or replaced batteries for the light sources within them. I laughed when people made jokes. The thing is, when you’re someone’s date to a wedding, to the wedding of his friends, surrounded by others of his friends you’re meeting for the first time—and when this person is someone who it seems may be important to you for a long time—you are a good sport. I wanted to be a good sport, and I could be, I would be, but I was getting crankier. And crankier. One more crank. We hadn’t had coffee, I reminded myself. We could have coffee later. Just a little bit longer, and this would be done.

  Several hours later, we were still working, and there was one string of lanterns that had been successfully attached to the ceiling. The plan called for seven strings, or possibly eight. A lot, was all I knew. There were deliberations about whether that first string needed to be taken down, because the lantern in the center was in the guests’ sight line and was likely to prevent them from seeing the bride’s face. A couple of people hoisted a ladder on top of a table, and a guy started to climb up onto it. This seemed to me a very bad idea.