I have an unfortunate tendency to falter at crucial moments. For instance, standing at the altar in a church in Vermont, waiting for my wife-to-be to come down the aisle to marry me, I start to feel horribly ill.
Not just vaguely queasy, but severely nauseated and shaky — and, most of all, sweaty. The church is hot that day — it's early July — and many people are perspiring in their summer suits and sun-dresses. But not like I am. As the processional plays, sweat begins to bead on my forehead and above my upper lip.
In the wedding photos, Susanna is glowing; I am glistening. By the time she joins me in the front of the church, rivulets of sweat are running into my eyes and dripping down my collar. We turn to face the minister. Behind him are the friends we have asked to give readings, and I see them looking at me with concern.
What's wrong with him, I imagine they are thinking. Is he going to pass out? Merely imagining these thoughts makes me sweat even more. My best man, standing a few feet behind me, taps me on the shoulder and hands me a tissue to mop my brow. The wedding readers' facial expressions have gone from registering mild concern to unconcealed horror: Is he going to die? I'm beginning to wonder that myself. For I have started to shake. I don't mean slight trembling — I feel like I'm on the verge of convulsing.
I am concentrating on keeping my legs from flying out from under me and am hoping that my pants are baggy enough to keep the trembling from being too visible. I'm now leaning on my almost wife and she is doing her best to hold me up. The minister is droning on; I have no idea what he's saying. I am not, as they say, present in the moment. I'm praying for him to hurry up so I can escape this torment. He pauses and looks down at my betrothed and me.
