Out of My League

My would-be ring bearer rejected me. Saturday, Little Sister and I went to Ravens Stadium (I know that’s not really its name, but I feel like I’m doing an awkward commercial in the Truman Show when I call it by it’s corporately-sponsored name). Our little cousins played in the “Super Bowls” for their respective age groups. The oldest is 11 and a big star on his team. But the cousin in question is newly seven and plays flag football, without pads or the glasses he usually wears. We just missed his game and found him munching on a hot dog. At this point, he refused to speak with me.

Throughout the day I requested his attention so I could ask him a question.

“Never!” He yelled, throwing his head back. Then he ran away.

Finally, as I escorted him from the seats to meet up with his brother, who had just won the Super Bowl, he let me talk to him.

“I was wondering if you would be in the wedding for me.”

“No,” he said.

“Gillian will be there too. You guys can walk together.” I’m still unsure why I thought this might be a selling point, as seven-year-olds despise members of the opposite sex, even if they are relatives. Maybe especially if they are relatives.

I resorted to saying, “Well, I was just being nice. You have to; your mom already said yes.” Mature, C. Nice.

He came running back later, asking why I didn’t ask his other brother, the shaggy-haired 10-year-old who was a spectator that day. “He’d be better than me, anyway.”

A little friend, Colin, overheard this conversation. “I was a ringbear,” he offered.

“Great!” I said, “Please tell him that it’s fun and he should do it! You had fun, right?”

“NO,” Colin exclaimed without mulling it over, “It’s not fun at all! Don’t do it! SAY NO!”

With that, the two ran away.

My own ring bearer shot me down. At least the groom still wants me.