Against everyone else’s better judgement, I shared in what was a life defining moment with someone I had truly loved — his wedding.

Dispelling all doubt that he meant it when he said that we should be friends, he called me up a few months ago asking me I would give him the honor of being his best-man. This while I was in the middle of a wonderful road rage moment. Since his news didin’t quite manage to make him the eulogist at my funeral, I had no other choice but to say yes.

Why? I don’t really know why I said yes. Maybe it was because i wanted him to feel that I was really over him. That I really meant it when I told him I’ve moved on. Maybe it was my desire to believe that we could truly be friends after all that we’ve been through, that he really considered me his best man.

After much deliberation, I decided to grab the free ticket and go. Though I did backtrack on being best-man at the wedding  (can you imagine having to explain why the best-man was crying hysterically?)  I did fly a few hundred miles to share in what was a wonderful celebration.

The flowers were fresh, the kids amusing and his bride, beautiful. It was, all in all, quaintly perfect with just the right touch of joy and sadness. I only teared up once and it wasn’t even during the I do’s. It was when she was thanking her parents and she was all chocked up and I saw him tug her closer to him. I couldn’t say as much for his not so bad looking ex roomie who was shedding buckets. Hmmm. Maybe I could ask him to do me a favor…

During the standard thank you’s he mentioned that a particular friend had flown in from elsewhere to be there and that he was grateful. And I knew that the trip and could-have-been-inner-turmoil was worth it. Something unimaginable had happened — the best man I’ve known was now married, and I was resolutely happy about it.