I was in a wedding last weekend that, all things considered, should have been a train wreck. The bride, Jenn, and I have been BFFs since we swapped friendship bracelets at summer camp in the seventh grade. On the surface, we don’t have much in common. Jenn has a bubbly, bouncy personality and listens to country and the Top 40 countdown. I, on the other hand, don’t do perky and would rather set my hair on fire and stab my inner thigh with a fork than suffer through a single verse of anything American Idol-related. However, Jenn is the one person who tells me when I’m full of crap and yet celebrates my particular brand of crazy. The ability to recognize the functionality of someone else’s dysfunction often is all that is necessary for a well-founded friendship.

Because our relationship is so solid, I felt perfectly comfortable flashing Jenn my patented are-you-effing-crazy eyebrow arch when she originally announced she was scheduling her outdoor wedding for the middle of October. (Here in the Midwest, the chances that she was going to be blessed with weather anywhere close to suitable were slim-to-none.) A bastion of optimism, however, Jenn fought the good fight and stuck with her precarious plans. Unfortunately, the power of her positive thinking wasn’t quite strong enough to warm the Northern Hemisphere, and the bridal party shivered its way through a couple of hours of picture-taking before the ceremony finally was moved indoors. (Trust me when I say that no amount of love and affection can make up for having to wear a strapless dress on a day when the high was 48 degrees. However, in Jenn’s defense, the getup I originally had my eye on was about 8 in. shorter. I probably should just be grateful that none of the other bridesmaids share my penchant for inappropriately short skirts.)

The fire department arrives on scene.

The fire department arrives on scene.

Alas, the weather was the least of Jenn’s wedding-day disasters. Of course, a few of the usual minor mishaps occurred—glasses were broken, boutineers were misplaced, and tantrums were thrown—but this wouldn’t be much of a story if that was the worst I had to offer. Next up in the catastrophe catalog: The best man neglected to make an appearance, and there apparently was some question as to whether he was on the run from the law. (Wait, it gets better.) The pièce de résistance was that the venue’s fire alarm was pulled. Not once. Twice. Sirens squealing, lights flashing, firemen storming through the door… It was every bride’s wet dream.

The firemen save the day.

The firemen save the day.

(I must pause for a moment to note that if I ever meet the facility designer who decided it was a good idea to install a fire alarm at 4-year-old eye level, the jackass better be able to run.)

By this point, any other bride would have been reduced to tears. Personally, I would have ripped off somebody’s head and aimed for a strike at the nearest bowling alley. Instead, Jenn turned every tragedy into an opportunity for laughter. As I sat stuffing my face with wedding cake, I marveled at how my friend could simply let her predicaments fade into the background and focus on sharing what was left of her special day with her new husband. Rather than worry about the complications she had no control over, Jenn joined her family on the dance floor and attempted to perform the Chicken Dance in a floor-length bridal gown.

I will always be jealous of Jenn’s ability to drop-kick her baggage at the door. The capacity to shrug off anxiety is a talent I really could have utilized during the past few years. I’m not sure I can face my birth-mother search with a cheery, positive attitude; my brain just isn’t hardwired for blind hopefulness. But I can borrow Jenn’s approach to adversity: So many friends and family members have chosen to groove the Adoption Hokey Pokey with me, the least I can do is strive for cautious optimism.

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