There is an article called The Wedding Toast I'll Never Give. The author describes the messiness around a missed flight and rebooking, with associated fees. I enjoyed hearing her story, and the detachment it afforded me as she relayed the particulars around getting from New York to Minneapolis. When you are on the ground, and your undies are still in a drawer it is easy to be dispassionate about speed wheeling a black suitcase down a terminal, sweaty hand held fiercely to an eight year old's who wants a bagel from that vendor, dodging between other harried travelers bent on boarding. 

The author relays her fluctuating reactions as her hubby makes mistakes that cost him- them- serious cash. 

She fantasizes about popping the balloon of Complete and Utter Trust that is the stuff of wedding vows. 

"I will always be your best friend. I will never let you down."

And yet. 

John is my best friend. At least when I am not annoyed at him. Like most people under eighty I am still more ego than saint, and there is little room left for friends, best or otherwise, when ninety per cent of our attention is riveted to our own needs.