1:07 a.m. - July 18, 2004
Michael P. was happy and beamed non-stop and all the talk about him being nervous was misplaced. It was I, standing next to the pastor, who was nervous. I followed a bead of sweat down my nape, navigate the shoulderblade until it reached the straight-to-ass alley of my back. Momentarily while signing a bit about commitment and foundation and God I worried that the back of my shirt would be wet and tiny droplets of sweat would seep - or drip - onto my slacks and would stains be noticeable? And then it was over and another wedding ceremony ended.
Clueless but well-meaning hearing people approached with the tiresome variations of you were so beautiful! that evoke the worst in me: How the hell would you know what constitutes beautiful from adequate and abysmal? Hands that move in the air are not poesis by acclaim.
Non-sequitur: On the elevated platform, I felt fat and prayed my visage, this corpulence, this protection-I-craved-earlier-but-has-now-outworn-its-welcome would not be captured on any recording device.
The reception was a candid affair: Serve yourself, ye bovine inhabitants. The best man's toast was well-suited, the groom's mini-speech an expected mix of tears and laughter. Very nice. A nice wedding. Nice people. Nice flowers. Nice for feeling part of something for a few hours.
Found out Michael was selected as an official photographer at the Olympics a few days ago. You work with someone for a while, have a lunch or two, and establish a framework of expectations: Tech guru, hefty stock options, a patent here and there, the guy to see when your computer acts up. And that's the extent of things, a neat snapshot that seems to encompass everything of interest and need-to-know. And then you find out he's a world-famous photographer on assignment to Athens for the next month or so.
What am I doing that's outside your box labeled Jason?