Growing up, I attended a wedding approximately every 48 hours. Coming from a very large… Growing up, I attended a wedding approximately every 48 hours. Coming from a very large Italian family, you are indoctrinated into a culture of weddings. Big families marry anything that moves. Sometimes, we’ll just have weddings because we want to get drunk. I loved weddings as a kid, because they were always occasions where everyone was in such a celebratory mood that the real rules kind of went out the window. And that meant one thing: I could drink. But that’s neither here nor there.

But gone are the days when weddings are just an excuse to run around in circles with my favorite cousins, do the chicken dance, eat gourmet food and be gushed over by relatives I don’t recognize who simply adore me (hooray for unconditional positive regard!) No, no, no, son. I’m a 20something now, and if network TV has taught me anything, it’s that 20somethings are supposed to be fretful and self-absorbed, and that means not being able to enjoy weddings.

Yes, Virginia, I’m a 20something, and I’ve learned that, to the 20something, weddings are all about two things: baggage and horrifying introspection.

See, at about this age, something really, really strange starts happening: Your actual friends start getting married. No, that doesn’t mean big cousin Ben who is 10 years older than you and is your buddy, that means the girl you lived down the hall from sophomore year. Like, other people your own age. Committing to someone else forever and ever, until they’re old and spotty and smell like mothballs and don’t do anything but crossword puzzles and church bingo. That long.

Last thing I knew, I was the adorable little cousin for whom Uncle John would order a gin and tonic at the bar. I looked like Macauley Culkin, for god’s sake, and that just totally killed in the early ’90s. You have no idea. But fast forward to this summer. A good friend of mine, at the rusty old age of 22, is getting married.

Step one: mix in baggage. The guest list included about eight people I actually knew. Two of these people happened to be close buddies of mine. Three of them happened to be our ex-girlfriends. Recent, just-broke-up-with-you, long-term ex-girlfriends. This is the stuff of bad comedy. There should be laws about mixing exes from long enough relationships in environments where someone is likely to hear the song “Unforgettable” while two lovebirds take their first dance as man and wife. But that’s just how the summer after senior year goes. It’s make-or-break time for serious relationships. There are a lot of weddings and there are a lot of big breakups. Mix the two and you get, well, a very patently 20something experience.

Next month, a cousin of mine is getting married. No, not big cousin Ben who is 10 years older. A cousin who is like a year older. A guy I had my first communion with and used to play Ninja Turtles with. Madness, I tell you.

Step two: mix in horrifying introspection. See, in my family, I’m next in line to get married. Nevermind the fact that I’m single and definitely not ready to get old and mothbally and spotty with one girl. Old Italian people definitely don’t care about trivialities such as those. They just want you to bring home a nice Sicilian bella at the right age and put a ring on her finger. And they mean business. You have to go when it’s your turn in line, and this particular cousin is the only unmarried one who is any older than me. Grandma is going to start looking at me like, “Hey, you’re on deck.” And I’m going to have to field the “So, Danny, when are you getting married?” question from no fewer than 400 mildly intoxicated middle-aged family members. I need to think of something clever to say, other than defiantly shouting “NEVEEERRRRR!” More than anything, though, I definitely need to not think about things like that.

Maybe this just makes me crazy, but all of this has me feeling kind of, well, old. I mean, I’m not exactly ticking down my last minutes as I push 23, but as I look around campus at the new class moving in, I can’t help but think “you guys have no damn clue what’s about to happen to you.” I mean, these people are 18 years old and they actually look like kids to me. I was 18 years old like four seconds ago, wasn’t I? I don’t want to be a 20something anymore. I’ll have to buy a Volkswagen Jetta and talk about how “sporty” it is. I’ll have to start going to Starbucks and move to the suburbs. I’ll have to start reading contemporary fiction. And I swear to god, if I start identifying with episodes of “Friends,” I will completely snap, guaranteed. I’d rather identify with Brett Easton Ellis characters than Chandler or Ross. That’s how badly I don’t want to feel like a “Friend.”

Maybe I can skip straight to being an old man. I’d love that. I’d be good at being an old man. I could sit around on a recliner all day and complain about how stupid “these kids today” are. I could do nothing but watch Pittsburgh sports and explain to whoever is in the room (or no one at all – ’cause that’s how you roll when you’re an old man) what bums these players are, and wax poetic about the glory days. I could drink whiskey and hit on women like 40 years younger than me, and it wouldn’t be alarming behavior; it’d be cute. “Oh, that’s just grandpa, grabassing as always. Oh, grandpa!”

For the record, the wedding was beautiful and I still look forward to my cousin’s. I’m considering just wearing my dad’s wedding band there and telling them I eloped with a Mexican stripper. That’ll teach them not to ask. And maybe kill some of them, but hey, you want to make a peace-of-mind omelete, you have to break some eggs. I guess there isn’t any getting out of this 20something thing, though. Maybe I’ll be better at it than I think. After all, network TV has also taught me that when you’re a 20something, you have to live in the big city and work at some sort of publication, preferably a hip magazine, and have quirky, endearing friends who always have something witty to say. OK, so I live in Pittsburgh and I work at a newspaper and my friends are mostly shady jackasses and maniacs. But hey, give me a break. I’m only 22.

E-mail Dan at [email protected].