This time of year, the wedding pages are full of beaming, buxom brides. Ah, young love. Ah, summer. Ah, the poor parents expected to bankroll their daughters’ dreams.

I’m something of a wedding junkie. I don’t know why; it doesn’t fit the rest of my personality. Usually I’m a practical, hands-in-the-dirt kind of girl. But get me around white satin and big, fragrant bouquets and string quartets playing Pachelbel — and my knees go weak.

At Michael’s, the craft store, I stand and stare at the do-it-yourself wedding supplies. I buy bridal magazines and pore over the pictures. My own wedding(s!) long past, I dream of having another one to plan. (Soon enough; I have five daughters.)

For a time, I fed my addiction by performing weddings. I lived in Florida then, and the state of Florida allows notaries public to join people in matrimony. It started when I introduced a male friend of mine to a female friend of mine, and they fell in love.

“Will you do the wedding?” she asked. “It’ll be fun.”

So I sent off the notary application forms and paid a fee. Next thing I knew, we were standing on the beach at sunset, my friend in a lacy dress, her groom in a suit, some guy playing the bagpipes.

A couple of years later, they divorced. Oops. Strike one for my marrying career.

I had better luck with later unions. A pair of 70-somethings, who married under a flowered arch in their neighbor’s yard. A middle-aged couple who tied the knot in a five-minute ceremony at home. Two college students who said their vows in mom’s living room. A friend’s daughter who married on the lawn of a Tampa country club — on a windy day. (I’ll spare you the details, except to say that some of the floral arrangements became airborne.)

As far as I know, those couples are still married, all of them. I think the doctor and her husband are, too. Their wedding took place on the roof of the St. Petersburg Yacht Club. Both had been married before. The doctor was six months pregnant. Just as I pronounced them man and wife, the yacht club fired off its naval cannon, a daily tradition. The photographer, a Vietnam vet evidently suffering from PTSD, dropped his camera and ran.

The youngest bride and groom I ever married were barely legal. They were from Indiana and had come to Florida on spring break. A coworker of mine (also a wedding junkie) found them wandering the sidewalks of downtown St. Petersburg, looking for the courthouse. She came upstairs to the newsroom, pried me away from my desk and we drafted another witness — a sports reporter. The couple got their marriage license and I joined them in matrimony at a tiny green park two blocks away. I imagine their parents, back in Indiana, would kill me if they could find me.

Such lovely memories. I miss the wedding biz. South Carolina, I’m told, also allows notaries to perform marriages. Hmmm. Wanna get hitched, anyone?

Jeanne Malmgren can be reached at malmgrenj@independentmail.com.