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A 1)string quartet plays in the background as I listen to a famous New Age 2)guru perform a wedding ceremony on a 3)Malibu cliff.
The guru is marrying two friends of mine who met in an acting class last year. She turns to the groom and launches into a 4)spiel about how from now on, he’s going to make the bride’s “heart his home.”
That’s when I start to lose it. I feel the Malibu sun warming my shoulders and melting all my 5)cynicism into a pool of 6)mush. I grip my girlfriend’s hand for support but she’s doing worse than I am, wiping her teary eyes on a 7)scarf.
“I’m not crying for them,”she whispers. “Im crying for me. No one’s going to make my heart their home.”
“I know,”I confess. “Someone might make my heart their apartment, but they’ll ruin the carpets and insist on a month to month 8)lease.”
We’re 9)giggling until we get some 10)dirty looks and regain our 11)composure.
The guru goes on about love and partnership and I’m still thinking about home.
I’m thinking, in particular, about a guy who invited me to a dinner party recently at his home. He’s the kind of guy I’m popular with these days, in his late thirties and desperate to get married to 12)appease his mother or 13)squelch any uncomfortable rumors about his sexuality.
His apartment displayed the sort of 14)Spartan living that makes a jail 15)cell look like a suite at the 16)Ritz.
I happened to see his bedroom on an apartment tour. A mattress sat on the floor, across from a TV 17)teetering 18)precariously on a milk 19)crate. A lone, 20)dingy white sheet clung to the bed. I’m no 21)Martha Stewart, but would it kill him to get a top sheet? A plant? If he made my heart his home, would it start to look a little like this?
The guru asks the bride to recite the vows she has written. They’re beautiful. “I’m so grateful you chose me, and that you choose me every day,”she says, gripping a bouquet of yellow flowers.
My friend squeezes my hand and I remember that other people crying always makes me cry and now the whole place is a 22)sniffling mess.
This is a big year for weddings. My peers are starting to marry off 23)in droves. I’ll be a bridesmaid in September and I already have the sea 24)foam green dress to prove it. I don’t know how I feel about weddings, although I’m always honored to be a part of them. My family’s on the poor side and I’m on the practical side so I can only imagine doing the 25)Vegas thing myself.
It’s cooling off as the groom lifts the bride’s 26)veil and they kiss.
The last thing I want to be is the single, bitter wedding guest. What saves me from that 27)hideous 28)plight is my total 29)ambivalence about the whole thing. They say girls fantasize about white dresses and flowers and a big production but I only seem to yearn for the sweet excesses of a bachelor party.
The wedding guests move to outdoor tables and my friends and I talk about what kind of wedding we’d like. They ask me if I’d like a Jewish wedding. I say a date with a top sheet might be a good start, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I 30)strike up a conversation on the dance floor with a teacher from Dallas because I’ll do anything to not dance at weddings. He’s nice. I wonder briefly how he’d feel about making my heart his home. He makes his 31)rental care his home and leaves early to catch a flight back to Dallas. Even if you’re not 32)pining to get married, weddings can make you needy and sappy and lonely even teachers from Texas.
The bride gets up to sing her new husband, “My Funny Valentine.”He loves it when she sings and her voice is clear and 33)controlled and perfect.
To comfort myself, I recall an elderly couple I once saw eating their 34)early bird specials in total silence, broken only by the 35)slurping of vegetable beef soup.
Don’t feel bad, I tell myself. One day it’s flowers and vows, the next it’s 36)couples counseling and a mini 37)van. One day it’s 38)grilled 39)salmon and wedding cake, the next it’s vegetable beef soup.
Married people may be happier and they may not. There’s all kinds of loneliness and as many forms of contentment. I read 40)Richard Cory. I know there’s no way to tell from the outside who is truly happy.
Somewhere, I imagine, the bride is carefully hanging up her dress and smoothing it on the hanger. She’s giggling every time she says the word “husband.”
My friends and I climb into our car. The dirt road back to the freeway is long and 41)bumpy, and we 42)dish about the teacher and sing from the back seat all the way down.
在马利布的一个悬崖上，我听着一位著名的新世纪古鲁主持一场婚礼，一个弦乐四重奏乐团在奏着配乐。
古鲁在给我的两位朋友主持婚礼，他们是在去年的一个表演班上认识的。古鲁转向新郎，开始讲她那套长篇大论了，从今以后，他要以新娘的“心为家”。
就是那时我开始走神了。我觉得马利布的阳光温暖着我的双肩，我所有的玩世不恭冰消瓦解。我抓住女伴的手想从那找到些支持，却发现她比我还糟，已经在用围巾抹眼泪了。
“我不是为他们而哭，”她低声说，“我是为我自己哭，没有人会把我的心当成他们的家。”
“我知道，”我坦白说，“有人也许会把我的心当成他们的公寓，但他们会糟蹋我的地毯，而且坚持要按月租用。”
我们傻笑起来，直到看到别人投来的臭脸，才又安静下来。
古鲁继续讲着上帝，爱情和伴侣，我仍然想着关于家的事情。
具体地说，我是想着一个家伙，他最近请我参加在他家举行的聚餐。他是那种近来垂青于我的家伙。他已经三十好几了，非常希望通过结婚来安抚他的母亲和平息关于他性取向的谣言。
他的公寓布置得极其简陋，正因为这种简陋，单身牢房看来都像丽兹大饭店里的一个套间那么宽敞了。
到他的公寓拜访时我恰好看到了他的卧室。一张床垫铺在地上，一部电视机颤颤巍巍地放在对面的一个牛奶箱上。床上仅铺着一条白色的脏兮兮的床单。我不是玛莎·斯图尔特，但是买一张床罩、一棵植物回来不会要了他的命吧？如果他以我的心为家，他会不会把它搞成这个样子呢？
古鲁让新娘大声背出她所写下的誓言。她的誓言写得非常优美。“非常庆幸你选择了我，并且在将来每一天都会选择我。”她说着，手里握着一束黄色的鲜花。
我的朋友捏紧我的手，我记起自己看到别人哭也会忍不住哭，如今整个婚礼上已是抽泣声一片。
今年是结婚的好年头。和我同龄的人都开始一批批地嫁出去了。九月份我还会去当伴娘，那条雪青色的裙子就是证明。我不知道自己对婚礼的感觉如何，虽然我接到邀请时我总会感到很荣幸。我的家境不太好，而我又比较现实，所以我只能独自做着拉斯维加斯发财的白日梦了。
新郎掀起新娘的面纱，他们亲吻了起来，在场的哭声才渐渐平息下来。
我最不愿意做的就是成为一个在婚礼上的难堪的单身客人。把我从这窘迫的苦境中挽救出来的就是我对整件事情都抱着一种淡漠的态度。他们说女孩子爱幻想白色的结婚礼服、鲜花和盛大的结婚场面，而我好像只渴望在单身汉晚会上享受男士们的大献殷勤。
婚礼的宾客们向门外的餐桌走去，我则和朋友们谈起各自喜欢的婚礼。他们问我会否喜欢犹太式的婚礼。我说和一个有床罩的人约会也许是个不错的开始，但谈婚论嫁就未免为时过早了。
在舞池里我和一位来自达拉斯的老师攀谈了起来。因为在婚礼上我最不喜欢跳舞了。他人不错。有那么一会儿，我想知道他会否以我的心为家。但他雇佣钟点佣人照顾他的家，因此，提前离开赶乘飞机回达拉斯了。即使你并不太渴望结婚，婚礼还是会让你觉得有结婚的需要，让你多愁善感和感到孤单，即使是德克萨斯州的老师也会有这样的感触。
新娘站起来为她的新婚丈夫唱一曲《我可笑的情人》，新郎听得如痴如醉。她唱歌的音调很准，嗓音清亮而完美。
为了安慰自己，我回想起曾经看到的一对老夫妇大清早一起吃特价早餐的情形。他们两人一句话都没有说，唯一打破沉默的是喝牛肉蔬菜汤时发出的声响。
别难过，我告诉自己说。今天是鲜花和誓言，接下来就是夫妻咨询辅导和分居。今天是烤鲑鱼和结婚蛋糕，接下来就是蔬菜牛肉汤了。
结了婚的人可能会更加幸福，也可能不会。孤单寂寞有很多种，心满意足也一样。我读过《理查·柯瑞》。我知道局外人是无法知道局中人是否真的感到幸福的。
我想象，在某个地方，新娘小心地挂起并抚平她的结婚礼服；每次说到“老公”这个词时都会偷笑。
我和朋友爬进了我们的车子。通向高速公路的那条泥路既漫长又颠簸不平。我们戏谑着那个老师，从后座一路唱着歌回去。