Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, August 31, 1995 TAG: 9508310036
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE:
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
They call it the bachelor pot: Each guy pitches in 10 bucks at every wedding, and the winner - the one who manages to stave off marriage the longest - gets the jackpot.
So positively cliquish, so quintessentially male.
I remember first meeting Tom's Testosterone Troupe six years ago at the fifth wedding of the bunch. Pete's wife, Carol, was the bride, but there was no doubt who everyone came to check out:the outsider, Tom's new fiancee. Me.
A year later Tom would shift the balance of power from the Singles to the Marrieds, becoming No. 6 in the group to take the proverbial plunge.
I was not the girl Tom's best friend John had in mind.
John, an accountant on Chicago's fast track, was still single. His taste in women could be summed up in two words: Big Hair.
The weekend of our wedding, his best-man behavior consisted of two activities: clutching a Budweiser can and driving to the nearest 7-11 for more Budweiser.
Whenever I asked him a question or tried to engage him in dialogue, he groaned, punctuating the sound with a dent of his Budweiser.
I seriously considered buying him a loincloth for the ceremony. But what he needed was counseling.
Like a toddler dropped off at day-care, he was experiencing classic separation anxiety. And with good reason. From kindergarten through college, Tom and John had been inseparable.
Unlike my girlfriends and me, they rarely spoke of anything deep (read: guys, gossip, sex, guys). Unlike my girlfriends and me, they rarely spoke at all.
Like an old married couple, they knew each other so well they hardly needed to talk. From Hot Wheels to vintage Chryslers to college-dorm life, each knew the other well enough to finish his sentences.
It didn't take John long to do the math: He'd known Tom for 20 years, I'd known him 12 months.
Three was definitely a crowd.
So all weekend long, he glared at me. And all weekend long, I glared back. When the minister asked if anyone objected, I seriously worried that John would speak right up.
At the weekend's end, John drove back to Chicago, still single. And we drove off to the beach, newlyweds. I'm ashamed to say, the 5-year-old inside me was screaming: ``NANNY-NANNY-BOO-BOO! I won!''
``You will like him better when he gets married,'' Tom promised.
It's taken five years, but he was right. Last weekend, John married a very nice, very smart woman named Shareen.
I considered downing a case of Budweiser and ranting insults at the bride and her mother all weekend - in the ultimate Bride's Revenge.
But the worst thing I did was initiate slam dancing on the reception dance floor. And, dang it, John didn't even mind.
Seriously, he was on pretty good behavior, not denting a single beer can all weekend, that I noticed. He wore his old glasses during the requisite pre-wedding volleyball game (so as not to smash his good pair on his big day, which I admired). And he even set me up for a spike - once.
The whole gang was there to celebrate the eighth wedding of the Testosterone Troupe. John used the reception band's microphone to call the guys up for their $10 ante, while everyone teased the remaining bachelors.
And then there were two.
My husband was the best man, of course. During his toast, he quoted our friend Frances, who defines a really good friend as someone you can call at 3 in the morning from Johnson City, Tenn., to come get you out of jail.
``I have a list of about 10 people I could call and, Shareen, I'm sorry to tell you that John is No. 1 on that list,'' he said.
The gang has produced nine children since the creation of that ode to singledom, the bachelor pot. There have been dozens of moves and several new career paths to follow.
Through it all, these guys have updated their address books with alumni-association precision. They can phone-tree like nobody's business.
And so I look forward to the call announcing the next wedding, knowing that some friends come and go, but not these 10.
And I pity, just a little, wife No. 9, who surely will believe that the day belongs to her alone.
Some things a bride just can't compete with.
Beth Macy is a feature writer and Thursday columnist. Her number is 981-3435.
by CNB