After the ceremony, I entered the banquet hall and took my place by the cake. The rest of the wedding party arrived to shivarees, but my attention was fixed on the plasticky vastness of the tiered confection on my left. Could it be real? Or was it yet another decoration, like the shoddy ersatz rings sewn to the pillow of which I was the bearer? How stupid I felt, holding the cushion aloft while the true rings had already found their fingers. Earlier, I had almost refused to participate in the ceremony, having discovered the true nature of this charade and the pointlessness of my role. No, this cake could not be real. Reaching out to test this hypothesis, I was shocked to find a large quantity of icing decorating my finger. And as I hid the evidence in my mouth, my family at table fifteen doubled over with delight at the silent-film comedy of a tuxedoed five-year old.
Later on, I kicked and screamed as someone shuttled me out of harm’s way of some breakdancing. All in all, a pretty good day.