“I have a proposition for you”, my sister said.
“Okay, shoot”, I replied warily. A proposition? What did she mean by that? Had she found some long-abandoned diary of mine that she planned to use for blackmail? Did she finally snap and quit her job, and now expected me to run away and join the circus with her? The possibilities were endless and frightening.
“I want you to be my man of honor,” she said.
I don’t suppose I ever expected that. I mean, I knew she was planning to get married late next year, and I was already slated to be a groomsman. But I couldn’t ever recall hearing of a male being part of the bridal party, except in certain contrived, emasculating chick flicks. Then again, my sister isn’t exactly known for coloring within the lines.
Despite the unconventional nature of her request, I was honored and immediately accepted. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. We don’t have any other siblings, so we’ve always been very close. Besides, my sister doesn’t have an encouraging track record with best friends; it seems like there’s an ugly falling-out every couple of years. (My sister’s theory is that she emits some sort of hormone that slowly drives the women closest to her insane.) At least she could be reasonably assured that I would still be around in the coming years.
Most importantly, I was reassured of two things: I would still be wearing a tuxedo, and I wouldn’t have to plan the bachelorette party. After all, I have my limits. Wearing a dress just happens to be one of them.