Made of Steele

It used to be whenever Damian Marley’s “Beautiful” shuffled into my ear buds, I was teleported into a 1996 white, manual transmission Jeep Wrangler. The wind whipped my hair around every which way and huge sunglasses protected my already lobstery face, as I drove through the bustling streets of Montego Bay. It was around Marley’s second verse when my fantasy turned into a nightmare upon the realization that I was driving on the wrong side of the road and I’m really not that great at shifting out of first gear.

Now when I hear the song I have a different dream sequence. It’s of two beautiful people, standing on the beach, professing their love for each other before their close friends and family – in Montego Bay. What is with that place?

I had plans on heading to Jamaica for the auspicious occasion of Franky and Dave’s wedding, where I would’ve ended up either ruining my make-up at the ceremony or crashing my rental on my way to the reception. If it wasn’t for my crazy travel schedule, I would have wanted nothing more than to sit beachside, looking like a member of Kiss in a neck brace (in other words, like Snooki), to witness the union of these two knuckleheads. It would have been the perfect culmination to a year I wasted doubting and questioning the existence of love. I would have taken a mental picture of that moment they turn to each other with the wholeness of their being and kept it with me forever.

Now, I’m going to be the only asshole bawling at the wedding video party. And I hate that. And by hate, I mean love. And love, love is simply beautiful.