I thought The Last Leg was going to be the last thing I ever posted here. That was my intention when I wrote it. I never planned to write one of those weepy, apologetic goodbye letters; I am not, after all, going anywhere. But here I am again, unable to resist the chance to vent over the latest Hanson Crisis, real or imagined.

And then there were the e-mails: So Laura, what do you think? You must be thinking lots, because you tend to do an annoying amount of that when it comes to Hanson, even when no one asks or pays you to, poor girl.

What can I say? Welcome to the shortest, most poorly publicized web site hiatus in the history of the Hansonet. I really thought I could do it. I thought I could take the editorial high road and remain forever silent regarding the well-publicized wedding of a certain Jordan Taylor you-know-who. But I can’t. So I’m back, for a minute. Then I’m leaving again. But first.

Are you ready for this one? No really. Are you ready? Sit down. You’re going to need to sit down. I’m not kidding.

Taylor Hanson is married. To someone who is not you.

Before you throw a fit, let me tell you something that will make you feel better. It should have been you. OK, that’s a lie. It really should have been me, if we’re looking for the Ultimate Hanson Bride—someone with charm, devastating wit, sympathy for artistic procrastination—but guess what? It wasn’t. If it was, I surely would have told you weeks ago and would have asked you to help pick out the invitations.

Is the problem that simple? Is the root of all the cyber flailing and whining simply that, despite our here-for-the-music posturing, we did, in the end, really really want it to be us? For some of us, I think it is. There has been lots of message board and e-mail ugliness directed at Mr. Hanson’s young bride. Where does that come from, when people obviously don’t know the girl in any kind of an intimate way? It comes from a basic jealousy of what she is. That will go away. Growing up tends to cure even the greenest varieties of envy.

But that’s not what’s bothering me. What has gotten in my craw since the minute those two lovebirds sauntered down the aisle has almost nothing to do with the wedding itself. Guess what’s driving me nuts about Mr. and Mrs. Jordan T. Hanson?

You. I mean, I love you, but like most devoted and good siblings, you are driving me up the damn wall lately, and in a minute, I’m going to ask Mom to put you in the corner. Why? Because you, like any bratty little sister, are pestering me with a million questions that don’t really matter.

So, how do you feel about Taylor getting married? Well, I really don’t feel much of anything. Were you sad? No. Were you surprised? Yes. Come on, but were you really surprised? No. Don’t you think they’re too young? Not really. Do you think Taylor is making a bad decision? I think he’ll find that out on his own pretty soon. Do you think this is the end of Hanson? No. Do you think this is going to delay the album? Looks pretty delayed to me already. But aren’t you happy for them? Sure. But wait, Laura, don’t you care?

Well sure. I guess. Maybe?

One thing I am quite sure of, however: I am deeply bored with being made to feel that I should care. Remind me who got married here—two people or two thousand? Welcome, dear friends, to something I bet you never thought you’d see: My very genuine discomfort at having to form an opinion about something Hanson-related. Why? Because nobody asked me for one, except you, and we’ll get to you in a minute. I’m sure you’re shocked, but there was no late-night telephone call from Taylor—or Ike, for that matter, which is even more unfortunate—asking my permission to get hitched.

And nobody asked you either.

Once again, it took the professionals to put us in our place, better even, than Hanson could themselves. The InStyle feature on the wedding triggered an unexpected feeling in me: Relief. It’s the first piece of ink I’ve seen, up to and including any Hanson.net "official" proclamations, that was legitimately touching and completely devoid of judgment. There was no sniggering, no cynical references to teenage marriage statistics, no obnoxious wedding-to-baby’s-birth date calculations, no death-knells for the band, no Yoko references, no bitterness, and—thank God—no whining.

It was short and sweet and wonderfully reverent. As young people, we want so badly to be treated with respect. We want our ideas to be valued and our actions to be taken seriously. The magazine did something no one else bothered, or was big enough to do. It trusted two young people and their very important decision. It wasn’t an editorial. It wasn’t crammed in the back of the book under Celebrity Wedding Shockers. In short, it recognized that at the end of the day, no one was entitled to an opinion except Mr. and Mrs. Taylor Hanson. And I think we know what theirs is.

01.27.03