No matter how close we are to the couple getting married we always managed to land seating at a table of peers. Now I know why they asked for our birth dates on the RSVP.

My husband and I have gone to a lot of weddings this summer. We’ve finally reached the age when children of friends and family are partnering up and sealing the deal.
I haven’t been to a wedding in a long time, and I must say I was delighted by the changes.

Butterflies were released en masse; cupcakes replaced traditional wedding cakes; bridesmaids and ushers cartwheeled in to hip-hop music; and mothers of the bride performed interpretive dances to “How Deep Is Your Love?”

Yes, today’s weddings are a gas and a half! Nothing like the staid affairs of my generation.

But what really tipped the fun meter was where we were seated at dinner. No matter how close we were to the couple getting married — be they relatives, the offspring of dear friends or mere acquaintances who needed a Cuisinart — we always managed to land primo seating at a table of peers.

Now I know why they asked for our birthdates on the RSVP. Duh!

I must confess, however, that I was not initially thrilled with being placed with middle-aged peers. “Oh, I see how it is” is what went through my bitter little mind. They can’t even mix it up a little or trust us to keep the conversation going with people half our age. I get it.

To make matters worse, my adult children landed at the young “fun table” at the first wedding we attended — a table that shook with raucous laughter and knocked-over shot glasses, a table that I longed to join. After a while, I did. Having put in a respectable amount of time at the “geezer table,” as I jokingly called it to my husband, I sauntered over to the lively table and pulled up a chair.

No one seemed to mind or, notice. Not even my kids, who were yakking about Snooki’s latest tattoo and some other pressing event whose relevance escaped me. But I hung in there and listened with moderate interest, laughing along, clueless and bored.

I would have hung in there longer had four little words not floated by my ears: “pass a kidney stone.” Who was dishing such tantalizing talk? I had to know. When I discovered the source — my table! — I couldn’t get back to my seat fast enough.

“Did I miss anything?!” I asked my husband.

“Not too much,” he said, patting my hand. “We’ve discussed fiber, cholesterol and Al’s kidney stone. Frank here was about to share his bout with diverticulitis. Your timing couldn’t be better, sweetheart.”

I closed my eyes and thanked my lucky stars for our choice seating assignment, lambasting myself for ever being disappointed. Fiber? Kidney stones? Intestinal outpouchings? Now that’s what I call wedding-reception fun!

Anne Palumbo writes for Messenger Post Media. Email her at avpalumbo@aol.com.