Sometimes I feel like we all went to Taylor Swift’s wedding. 

Except this time, instead of being dragged along by my wife, I was dragged along by the media. Going to a wedding is hardly ever my choice.  

Most of the men I know feel about the same way. There’s too much oohing and ahhing and exclamations of “isn’t that precious” and not enough other stuff to hold our attention. If the woman involved is anything beyond the nearest relative or closest friend, men see this as more of a chore than a celebration. 

As for the man involved, we assume he doesn’t really want to be doing this, either. These are just hoops he has to jump through.   

Women don’t even have to know the people getting married to get all twittery and excited. Or so it seems. I have suspicions that even they don’t enjoy a wedding as much as they carry on. How could they? They have to do twice as much preparing, their shoes are even less comfortable than ours and they can’t enjoy that puffed-up laminated wedding hair. 

Sometimes I suspect this whole business was something women cooked up to show who’s really the boss. It’s a big public display of “look what I can make my husband do!”  

Any video of a reception dance floor supports this theory. As evidenced by whatever it is they are trying to do in time to the music, most guys don’t belong out there and most normal guys would not do it voluntarily.  

And that brings us to the only part of the Kelce-Swift nuptials that is really interesting: the concept of normality. On a starry, starry night like this, with a billionaire singer and a Super Bowl star, how close to normal could anything get? 

You know what I’m talking about, the stuff that happens at weddings down here below the clouds, the ones you and I go to: Guests acting up, maybe using those bendable napkin holders as nose rings; limo getting stuck in the parking garage; a semi-obscene toast; fat uncle in a leisure suit has a little too much white zinfandel and tries to break dance. The kind of memorable stuff you hope people will forget. 

Swift probably didn’t have any of those issues, but I bet she did have one my wife could relate to, and it is a doozy. The seating chart. 

There were 1,000 “A-Listers” to deal with, all who regularly breathe the rarefied air of celebrity and are accustomed to getting the very best. So, on this most special of all nights when everybody is watching, who doesn’t? 

You can’t have all 150 tables up front, even if you’re Taylor Swift. If the kitchen has a door, somebody has to be closest to it. Any chance any of these glorified attention-getters might notice they are at the outer edge of the inner circle and might resent being slighted? 

Any chance they wouldn’t? No need for cutlery at the back of the room, the claws would already be sharpened.  

I can just see Swift sitting up late pushing index cards around and wondering, “which quarterbacks outrank what talk show hosts, does Paul McCartney get more attention than I do, is a backup dancer the equivalent of a cousin?” and so forth.  

It’s a hopeless task. No matter how hard you try, you’re liable to offend somebody. At least Swift had a soundtrack for the job, one of her own songs that might come back to haunt her, the one with the lyric “haters gonna hate.”