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We’ve probably never met, but I bet you would have loved it. Rodney and Clementine, both Burning Man devotees, transformed their wedding into a three-day festival. Named “The Big Commitment,” the event featured multiple DJs, stand-up comedy, a mock swim meet, fruit-themed pop parodies by a banana-suited singer, an Old West general store (accents encouraged), a puppet show and pages upon pages of fine print in a contract for the guests to sign upon arrival. 

At the wedding ceremony, it was revealed what we had all signed. Following an uncomfortable pause after the officiant asked if anyone knew a reason why these two shouldn’t be joined in matrimony, Monty, a comedian, stood up and loudly objected. Once the giggling started, the entire crowd realized we were in for another performance.

Monty insisted our friend group was too special to be disrupted by a conventional union. A couple of the bride’s friends jumped in to defend their group. Clementine, the bride, interjected to ask someone to read the lengthy contract we’d all signed. 

The reveal: All the wedding guests were marrying each other. The Big Commitment. Surprise! It wasn’t just about the love between Rodney and Clementine. It was a call for everyone to, according to the small font, “bond with new people and go deeper with old friends.” We would “see magic in everything” once we “learned to tap into the Sacred Silliness all around us.” 

In other words, we’d never grow up. 

Some of these friendships stretch back to elementary school — a rowdy band of jackasses always chasing mischief. Over the years, we’ve danced in costumes, pulled pranks and had deep conversations while watching the sun rise. But despite our best efforts to beat back the trappings of age, we have grown up. Now entering our 40s, our flaws don’t feel as funny. Behind the goofs and smiles, we’ve all said and done things to hurt each other. We’ve long buried the hatchet over past slights and screwups. But some hatchets aren’t buried very deep, and many are still sharp. 

We all used to drink too much, but the term alcoholic used to be a punchline without any emotional trigger. At least not for me, because alcohol wasn’t a problem for my parents. But it was for Brian’s. When we were young, I never noticed or cared how much Brian drank. But in recent years, I’ve grown close with his wife. Our young kids are friends, too.

At another gathering this year, before the kids had gone to bed, Brian had trouble hiding the slur in his speech. And I had trouble hiding my resentment. Personally, I’ve harbored fears of getting in a car accident with my children in the backseat. Seeing Brian in that state, unable to hold a conversation while his kids played in the other room, pulled me closer to a vision that terrifies me. 

Before the dance party on the second night, I told Brian his drinking bothered me. He listened, slightly tense, but it was weird since we were each holding a beer. We ended the conversation by clasping our hands together in a pact to support one another. A somber moment, but it also felt like kids reenacting a scene from one of the movies we all watched during sleepovers. 

Sustaining a friend group for decades does, in fact, begin to resemble a marriage. You text during work hours. You know each other’s shirt sizes. You feel real grief over a forgotten birthday. You start saying “I love you” before hanging up.  

The trouble with “lifelong” friendships is that often, they aren’t. We’ve all watched our parents cut out friends following decades-long relationships, or gradually lose touch. We all “married” each other at this wacky wedding, but unlike a real marriage, breaking up with a friend is far too easy. No property to split up. No custody or child support to fight over. You just stop reaching out. The passage of time brings a stronger excuse not to call. 

Before I had a family, these friendships were my most important relationships. In life’s carousel of shifting responsibilities, I tell myself I don’t need my guys as much as I used to. Sometimes I wonder: If I met these men today, would we still become friends?

The easy answer is no. They were my childhood neighbors. Our bond is rooted in the past. But here’s a more honest answer: If we met today, I wouldn’t be me. These friendships have left an imprint so deep that even I don’t fully understand it. If we met today, who would be meeting who? 

A couple years ago, we were all at an Airbnb in Joshua Tree when I mentioned that one of us will inevitably outlive all the others, and he will be the final holder of all our shared stories. Rodney joked that each of our stories will become a curly gray hair in the old man’s long gray beard. We cackled, as always.

But in truth, the last of us will one day close the book on a story that began with 1990s latchkey kids helping to raise each other. As we move through the many hardships of time, I hope we continue to see the best in each other. We’ve all signed the paperwork. Now we’re each responsible for holding up our end of the Big Commitment. 

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