I was at the age when all your friends start getting married.
It seemed as if every other month I was performing “I Will Be Here” by Steven Curtis Chapman, while a bride and groom lit the unity candle. Their pacing always much faster than rehearsed due to nerves and the unnatural activity of lighting candles in front of an audience.
This left everyone to wait for me to finish the song. What you learn in your first few weddings is that it can be quite painful for everyone involved to wait for a budding singer-songwriter determined to do every verse, bridge, and chorus because that’s how it is on the studio recording. Everyone is already annoyed that the wedding couple picked opening weekend of fishing season to recite their vows. They’re not in the mood for some kid doing a long sales pitch to buy his CD he’s got stashed in his guitar case.
Don’t get me wrong, I was honored and grateful my friends asked me to perform in their ceremony. But it was never not awkward.
Furthermore, I was always perplexed by a friendly proposition offered on several occasions. You see, my friends planning weddings—not unlike much of the entertainment business (and perhaps the world)—did not have much of a budget for music. What did they have? An aspiring singer-songwriter friend.
“Hey,” they’d say, “you could totally sell your CD and T-shirts at the reception! We could have a little table set up for you.”
They meant it, too. And I loved them for it.
Of course, I did not do this.
But a small part of me wishes I did. Because some days I like to pretend that I had taken up every offer. I like to imagine old photo albums all over the country with sections of the cake cutting ceremony. And then I like to imagine that in several of these photographs, way in the background, just to the left of the bride and groom throwing cake at each other, there would be me, just out of focus, but clear enough to see a young man in a shirt and tie, with stacks of shrink-wrapped CDs, and a Sharpie sign that reads:
“1 for $15
2 for $20”
Love,
Aaron