Have I ever told you I know from weddings?
I know from weddings.
I happen to have been in many several of them (eight, to be exact, if you’re counting bridesmaid positions; 11, if you also count the three I did readings for), and have been to many several more. In fact, I went to two while on vacation recently—bookended weekends of weddings, one in Chicago, one in Traverse City, Michigan.
Beautiful, both of them, the weddings. The brides looked gorgeous, and I am not just saying that because they are two of my closest girls in the whole wide world. Them girls looked real Hawt. In a classy, bride-like way. Lucky guys, Doug and Pete, to be hitched along for life with these gals.
And after both lovely ceremonies, the real mess of weddings happened. The receptions. The party-on-Wayne, party-on-Garth receptions. Both had unique venues – Mare’s in a converted warehouse, Anne’s in a heritage center overlooking a river. Or so I’m told. Seeing as how my table was perfectly situated between the bar and the dance floor, and the windows that showed the lovely greenery/river/landscape outside were on the other side of the room, and seeing as how, as my friend Smell put it so eloquently the next morning, “Yeah, when I get around you guys and I get drunk I think that I’m a really good dancer,” I did not make it far enough across the room to see said lovely landscape. I saw that there were windows, at least. I saw them from a distance.
Photos were taken, dancing was to be had, conversations with Native American statues took place.
Booze may have been consumed. Sexy booze was consumed!
Do you even have to ask if I stopped one of the servers at Anne’s reception and asked, “For serious?” as I pointed to the bottle? “Pink champagne called ‘SEX’?”
“Um, yeah,” the young man replied. “I’ve never seen it in pink, usually it’s just white SEX.”
Do you even have to ask if I then scuttled over to the head table and hissed delightedly at the Bride and her Matron of Honor (and other simply terrific college friend of mine), Nora, “You guys! Do you realize that we are drinking SEX? Why is yours white? Mine is pink!”?
And I’m sure you assumed—correctly—that I didn’t bother waiting for an answer before scuttling off to another table to gleefully tell those guests the same thing.
In case you were wondering, one of the reasons I am not yet married is because I am 12.
Later on in the night, I was sipping pink SEX, talking with a friend of mine (who it should be noted asked me over the weekend if he could have a code name on this here blog should he ever be mentioned, to which I said yes, of course, and now, since he is being mentioned, we shall not use his real name but his code name which, since I am feeling incredibly creative today, will heretofore be That Guy) and by that I mean I was yammering on about God Knows What at That Guy who probably wasn’t still standing there for conversation’s sake so much as he was there because he couldn’t figure out how to slip away without me noticing. (Hint: Just go. I talk so much half the time I don’t even notice if someone is there to listen. Barring a human in my range, I’ll talk to a wall. And if there are no walls, I’ll talk to myself.) So we’re standing there, and I’m gabbing away and then—and I think this is how it happened, but I really can’t be sure, as I’d had a glass or two of adult beverages by that point—for whatever reason, I decided to set my glass down.
Which is when I discovered that when drinking pink SEX champagne, I turn into The Incredible Hulk.
I finished my glass of champagne and turned away from That Guy to the table next to us and set my glass down in what I thought was a normal manner. And it would have been, for a normal girl. But like I said. Pink SEX. Lots of babbling. Knowing me, there may have been a gregarious hand gesture or three in there.
The glass shattered when I set it down. It took me a minute to realize what had happened. That Guy and I both just sort of stood there, perplexed, looking at the glass for a moment. And I continued looking at it, perplexed, for another long moment while That Guy helpfully and carefully cleaned up the jagged stem and glass, dusting up the small slivers and throwing the lot away.
“I’m like The Incredible Hulk!” I believe I yelled at That Guy when he returned. “I don’t know my own strength!”
And then a really good song came on and I bounced off to the dance floor and then I think I switched to red wine so there wouldn’t be anymore Incredible Hulk moments the rest of the night. Though I did inelegantly hurdle over some chairs later, but that’s because I’d just found out my sister was in labor, and that’s the only proper reaction to such news. And at one point I tried to climb in a canoe.
I just know from weddings. And my incredible, incredible Hulk-like strength. We can just leave it at that.