Saturday night I possibly drank a bit too much. Possibly flirted a bit too much. It was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to, held at a romantic Beverly Hills hotel that has the kind of movie-star history the tourists come looking for as their buses sweep them down the winding lengths of Sunset.
The groom is a good friend who fell hard, fast and deep for the daughter of a politically prominent man. When I first met her, and got to know her, I made it a point not to ask about her father because I wanted to convey my sincere interest in her, and not her last name; and then because she’s such a genuinely cool girl — brave, curious, compassionate, smart, giving, completely unpretentious, serious-minded but with a fun rebellious mischevious streak — you soon forget who her father is, or stop caring. Which is why, when I drove to the rehearsal dinner — my husband being one of the groomsmen — my first thought when I saw the men ranging the sidewalk in front of the restaurant was something like: Why are there so many valets, and why are they in those cool suits? Then I noticed their height, impressive builds, stoic expressions, and little cords emerging from their ears. They were not exactly there to park your car. It was a bit of a jolt, reminding me — more, even, than when I met the man himself, a friendly avuncular guy glowing with pleasure and pride in his daughter — that this was not a typical family for a friend to be marrying into. But then you go on into the party, get swept up in conversation and friends and food and drink, and all that matters is what a great time you’re having, and how lucky they are to be so in love.