Make Mine Mike

Well, I made it through all the pre-wedding family gatherings. Stressful but fun. I can't remember the last time I was around so many Long Island accents. My fiancee's relatives were a witty wisecracking bunch. It made me wish more of my family could be there, especially my parents. And not just so I could get some Yankee fan support to counteract Adelphia's NY Mets lovin' aunt, who I think liked me in spite of my Bronx Bomber allegiance.

My aunt and uncle agreed that my late grandmother would've loved my fiancee. She would've gotten a kick out of Adelphia's quirky, funny, animated, sweet personality. "She's quite a gal," Grandma would say. "You should marry her."

My sister brought over our bar mitzvah albums -- she had two copies of each, inherited from our late mother and grandmother, so now I have a set. I really don't know why 13 is considered the age at which you become a man, because you're so clearly not. Not mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and definitely not physically. This was one of the better pictures of me. Believe it or not, in the other photos, I look twice as much like a scared awkward prepubescent dork.

Adelphia and the rabbi believe that my parents will be somehow present at the wedding, looming in the background, watching me proudly, like in this photo. I don't know if I believe that. But I know my wedding pictures will be better.

Partially because I'll be thinking of them, partially because our photographer is awesome, partially because I'm no longer stuck in an awkward phase of boyish bewilderment and teenage angst, partially because our fashions and style aren't stuck in an awkward phase between '70s drab and '80s flash.

But mostly because my soon-to-be-wife is beautiful and I'll actually smile -- I'm marrying the greatest woman ever. I love you, Randi.