Two weddings. Two states. Two days. Too much.

My theory about weddings is that they come in waves. You get a wave after folks graduate from college, another wave if you have a lot of friends in grad school, and another wave of folks who, for lack of anything better, panic when they reach a certain age (there's probably a post-high school wave, but in my little WASPy town getting married at such an age would be gauche). At this point in my life, I should be through all this, getting ready for the wave of family weddings when the kids grow up.

But working in education tends to obliterate such lines. Consider that I have a girlfriend who just graduated from college, and remain friends with someone who's a senior (Jon Couture, the current BU collge bowl president; more on that in the future). I also worked with 50 or so college students each year at BU, which just adds to the number of people I know of marrying age.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I got invited to four weddings this year. The first was for a former co-worker, who was marrying a former RA. Had to miss that, as I'd just taken the Babson job and was in training.

This left 3 weddings. In eight days. The first, my friend Scott Monty's, was almost like a warm up for what followed. A Saturday morning wedding in Ipswich, Massachusetts, followed by a Sunday afternoon wedding in Slatersville, Rhode Island. And I was in that wedding, which necessitated getting there Saturday evening.

The craziness started Friday afternoon, when I went with Matt Harper-Nixon (the groom), his brother Dan, and his stepfather Baz to get tuxedos. We trundled down to North Attleboro, near the Rhode Island line, an ironic trip considering the tux place has an outlet in Needham, where Matt now lives. It was a nice drive, if nothing else.

So we get to the tux place, and we all start trying stuff on. My main thought was that I felt bad for the women in the wedding, as they probably went through ten times the aggravation with the dresses. Nice tux, maroon vest and tie, very traditional. Dan and I did see a printed vest with jungle creatures that we thought would look nice, but Allyson (the bride) probably wouldn't appreciate the rhinos the way we did.

Not surprisingly, my tux didn't fit. To be fair, most of it did. The pants, though, were too short, and the jacket was too small. The latter development was odd, considering the jacket was the same size as my suit jacket, which fits perfectly. They can do the pants in the store, but to get a proper jacket they have to contact the warehouse. Which makes it sound like they have to call in a materials science expert or get Lockheed to design the thing, which doesn't make me feel self conscious at all.

The rest of Friday passed without incident. Hung out a little, then off to Jillian's for the bachelor party, which consists of men drinking while playing manly games like pool and darts. Neat aside there is that, as an usher, my gift from Matt was a set of cuff links shaped like dart boards. He picked links for all the guys in the wedding based on interests or our relationship to him. Not that I'm such a great dart player; we just spent a lot of time in the past drinking and throwing darts.

Saturday dawns. I rouse myself, still feeling the beer and ribs (yum), and we start getting ready for the cross country assault. I wish I had better skills to put maps in here to show where we were going. We left Wellesley, me in my new olive suit (which looks better than it sounds), and Sarah in a lavender print dress (which also looks better than it sounds, thanks to my wonderful powers of description). Ipswich is a good hour away, up near my home town of Manchester.

Along the way, we drive through Hamilton and Wenham, proud members of the New England fraternity of small towns with village greens, white wooden churches, and rambling houses. Sarah spent most of this part of the drive saying "I want to live here!", a sentiment chilled by the cold hard reality of real estate prices in that part of the state. Should I ever get on Millionaire and land the big prize, we would just have enough money to buy a house there.

The wedding in Ipswich was for my friend Nancy, a former RA colleague of mine who I hadn't seen since before she moved to New York to go to Columbia. That was kind of the theme of the day, as I wound up re-acquainting myself with several people I don't think I've seen since 1998. There was Rachel, another RA friend, who was a bridesmaid (and is getting married in a month); Nate, a friend of Nancy's who was a resident of mine many years ago (getting married next week); Kristen, another RA friend (who is already married); and Dawn, an RA from the building next door (finally, someone I know who isn't married). There were also several people I kind of knew, friends of Nancy's from BU, a friend or two from Ipswich, her family, and so on. Not that I re-introduced myself to most of them, but you get the picture. I was still better off than Sarah, who didn't know anyone there but me.

Wedding was outside, under threatening circumstances. Cloudy, then breaking up, then much cloudier. The justice of the peace, sensing time was of the essense, sped through the ceremony, but did an excellent job of not seeming rushed. The wind picked up as things went along, and at one point Nancy's veil was standing straight up. The ceremony was an interesting mix of things: just a guitar player for music, readings of literature and a native American marriage blessing (neither Nancy or Dave have that background, but it was a nice reading). Not what I would choose, but then again I have that whole 2000 years of religious tradition to deal with.

Reception was on site where the wedding was, so no travel there, thankfully. Not much to say about the reception, except that I was limping around like a fool, thanks to a softball injury from the summer (heel) that decided that that day would be the best day to flare up as it hasn't in months. You may be wondering why I've not seen a doctor. Good question, one that, outside of sheer laziness, doesn't have an answer.

So we ate, didn't dance (people were not dancing in droves; no one is drunk enough in the afternoon), I caught up with folks, and the sun came out. A change was in the air; it was sunny but windy and cold, a bracing wind to prepare us for our trip. We took the hint and made tracks.

The trip to Rhode Island was straightforward enough, until we got back onto 295 after picking up the tux. We're looking for exit 9B. We got off 295 at 1A. So I figure head north, the opposite direction we went from, and the numbers should rise. And they did. To 2A and 2B, which put us back on 95. I didn't count on the exits being re-numbered in Rhode Island. This was an easily fixed omen for the next day, one which we did not heed.

Getting to the church was interesting, as the directions tended to give landmarks like the "wood chopping guy," which was just what it sounds like, but smacks of the SNL skit with the New England game show where people give directions ("turn left at the wicked fat kid selling fireworks"). At one point I thought we were to follow route 146 to the end, which if we did we'd wind up in Worcester. Even when you mean to go to Worcester, you don't want to be there, which made me re-read the directions. I figured out the exit we needed just as we were passing the first sign for it. Crisis averted.

I will note at this point that Sarah, as much as I love her, has this disconcerting habit of listening to you read directions, and then ask it back as a question when you're right on top of the turn you need to make. This will come up again later.

We get to the church, St. John the Evangelist. Odd coincidence, as the church we've been going to in Wellesley shares the name. I will say I like the Rhode Island one much better. It is here that I meet most of Matt's family for the first time. Let it be said here and now that he shares an uncanny resemblance to his dad and his uncle. You may be wondering how it can be uncanny if they're related. Suffice it to say the three could be clones.

It was also interesting to watch Matt's parents, their new spouses, and the rest of the family interact. Very friendly, much more friendly than I expected, though I admit my judgment is clouded by my brother's divorce (which is a whole other story).

Allyson and her family arrived in stages, and all I can say is that they are all very blond or near blond (though I think there is one cousin or sister who's brunette). The ceremony is a joint production between the priest and Matt's dad, who is a minister in one of the Protestant faiths. My job as an usher is pretty easy; seat people beforehand, walk Matt's stepmom down, and walk out with one of the bridesmaids.

A note at this time regarding that last step. I can say this having cleared it with Sarah, who understood where I was coming from much better than I thought (with apologies for my underestimation). This was the first wedding EVER , where I was paired with an attractive and apparently unattached bridesmaid. Past matches included a pregnant co-worked of my sister, my new sister in law's married sister, a woman who'd just given birth to twins, and at least one girlfriend of a long-time friend of mine. To be honest, it's not like I'd have gotten anywhere were I not with Sarah; my bumbling with women would be legendary if it weren't locked deep away in the farthest recesses of my brain. But I just wanted to make the point that this is one of the many examples of fate smacking me around like a red-headed stepchild.

Then it was off to the rehearsal dinner. Rhode Island has many unique culinary delights. Take the Awful Awful, a 24 ounce frappe (milkshake to you heathens in the hinterland) that has the consistency of freshly-mixed concrete. Sadly, the Newport Creamery, the chain that offers them, is mostly closed now, as the owners decided to reinvest their profits in a house in Florida. Then there's coffee milk, which, well, isn't as much a delight as something that I rather not try.

But then there's family style chicken. Normally, food in big tubs doesn't sound appealing. It sounds like every school lunch, military mess, and prison chow line come together. But in this case, ignore your instincts. It starts with your average garden salad, followed by pasta (penne in a simple tomato sauce). Then, all at once, you get potatos (fries and roasted) and this rosemary oven-roasted chicken that won't stay on the bone long enough for you to get it to your plate. So, so good. If you ever find yourself in the Blackstone Valley, seek this out. You've not lived until you've stuffed yourself silly with chicken.

We get to the hotel kind of late, but find a note from friend Mark Beazley, aka The Beezer. He's part of the large college bowl contingent at the wedding, a contingent which, I'd have to think is unlike other college bowl wedding contingents, wound up being well dressed and freshly groomed. The room was spacious, two double beds, and had one wall that was covered with mirrors. Just what sort of place Matt and Allyson booked us in I don't know.

The Beezer lives in Brookly and works for American Baby magazine. He may be the only straight guy there (or so I assume). Kind of a funny job for a guy who managed to wangle credit out of interning for Marvel Comics for a semester.

We also meet up with Matt the Bruce, a name so entrenched that even he goes by it. The Bruce was a Harvard undergrad, and came to BU for law school. This was a perfect entry into the world of software development, where he still has a job with a company out in San Francisco. Almost everything post-Harvard for The Bruce has some sort of strange college bowl tie that I don't think I can do justice explaining here. In the, what, year and change since I'd seen him last, The Bruce has grown his hair out. Too short to warrant a ponytail, too bushy to count as a mullet, even though I accused him of such. Given his prediliction for hair metal, either style would be fitting.

OK, more later, too much typing!