July 31, 2006

I’ve been nervously excited about Greg and Larissa’s wedding ever since their invitation arrived in my mailbox two months ago.

“Yo! Sherry! I’ve never been to a wedding before,” I confessed. “What shall I do? What shall I wear?”

“Rule #1: wear pants,” said Sherry, who knows everything about everything.

So on the morning of Greg’s wedding, I pulled up some pants, grabbed a tiny girl named Laura, and rushed towards the edge of Toronto. For a while, we made great, violent progress through the wilderness of asphalt that links our cities. Until we ran into endless construction detours. And traffic jams. And got horribly lost in the suburbs of Vaughan.

We set our car radio on despair.

By the time we stumbled into the Kortright conservation area where the wedding was to take place, we were sweaty and half-an-hour too late. Greg and Larissa were already man and wife and glowing in their new, sleek selves.

“At least we’re on time for the dinner,” I said enthusiastically and full of regret.