I remember asking one of my psychiatry professors what is the hardest thing for a psychiatrist to empathize in a patient. Without a pause she replied ‘Another person’s love object, in the end there’s no accounting for taste’. I think of this sage advice when my gay patients announce their wedding plans for most of the time I can not fathom ‘why that one”. Gay weddings seem to be mostly for the older gentlemen who have been together for decades, motivated not so much by ‘hot love’ as bettering their taxes and financial arrangements. This is a fine enough reason to marry I suppose.

Back to Professor’s axiomatic statement, it is sometimes downright impossible for the objective observer to fathom what people see in each other. I’ve not been to many queer weddings but the ones I see on TV don’t evoke to tears as to wonderment at what on earth are they doing there. Still, a wedding is a good incentive to get into shape in order to fit into that suit you haven’t worn in ages.

My patients (but not my friends) seem to be getting married in droves. Patients have invited me to their nuptials (bless their hearts) but I always decline. It would be rather awkward for me to dodge the wedding guests’ question which groom am I a friend of, when in fact I am their shrink. Not only would this violate patient-physician confidentially but it would be make the guests worry I had been invited (or crashed) the soiree  lest the groom-now-outed patient goes into hysterics and my job is to rush forth with an injectable sedative.
With few exceptions the gay men I know (professionally or personally) are either desperate to marry and/or pushing their single friends to do likewise. This is more likely if they are over fifty. Younger gays seem to have little or no interest in tying the knot and settling down.
All the same like Charlie Brown hoping for an invitation I eagerly look forward to getting one so I can show up in my new bow tie. I only wish I could attach a note to the wedding present saying in case of a divorce I want this to go to the man I choose. I hate to think my bibelot is going to fall into the hands of that drip.