Today the Sister Club plus my parents are heading up to the wilds of Coon Rapids, Minnesota for the wedding of my cousin Buddy. I’ve already spent nearly an hour on the phone trying to coordinate various meeting times and places, along with directions to the wedding venue. Nothing with the Sister Club is ever, ever easy.

This wedding finds me oddly excited and not anxious at all. Generally I hate family weddings because being 34 and single I am pelted with rude questions about when I will be married. Because, apparently I don’t wear my shame at being unmarriable on my sleeve and must justify myself to everyone who who shares a gene-pool with my dad.

But, this wedding will be different. First of all, Buddy is the grandson of my dad’s brother John (we’re Catholic, Dad has 9 brothers and sisters — most of whom we don’t like, however the John sect we love. John has something like 7 kids — all of whom have married and reproduced, copiously), so we like this family. Secondly, it’s in Coon Rapids.

Right or wrong, I love to generalize Coon Rapids as the epitome of Minnesota suburban hickiness. I know I’m not much better living in Shakopee, but you can ask nearly any Minnesotan and they will tell you the southern burbs are swanky and the northern burbs are rednecky. I know this because I grew up in Blaine. Seriously, they’re hicks.

Finally, and this is the best part, Buddy, my 23 (which he turned on Monday) is marrying someone I went to high school with. Remember when I said up there that I was 34? Well his bride-to-be was a senior when I was a sophomore, so that makes her about 36.

Now, I really cannot judge being as I sit in class every Thursday dreaming up ways I can corrupt The Graduate. However, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t go to High School with any of his family, and if I did, we’ll just elope so his selfish, snooty cousin that went to high school with me won’t be so weirded out.

I think what’s weirdest of all is that when I was a senior in high school I lived with Buddy and his family. He was six, I was 17. His childhood is inextricably linked with my high schoolhood. So in my mind he’s always six and sitting on the couch with the chicken pox and I’m 17 trying to cheer him up singing a song that I made up called Bumpy Buddy.

It’s hard for me to comprehend that he’s old enough to get married, that he can make that decision on his own, and even weird that he’s marrying someone my age.

I can’t wait for this wedding to get started.