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As you read this, my next-door neighbors and I — and many others in town — are recuperating from their wedding yesterday. So hold it down, okay?
I haven’t been able to attend a wedding in awhile because I had to wait until the statute of limitations expired from the last event. It’s a long story. So I was thrilled to be invited to — I’ll call them … “Chris” and “Nikki”’s nuptials.
Chris and Nikki are, well, punks. Like punk-rockers, sort of. Throw in a little bit of goth, an overzealousness for Halloween, a bunch of tattoos, a wedding date of Friday the 13th and wedding colors that are black and red.
The theme is punk/Halloween/rockabilly, whatever that is. We’re encouraged to wear costumes. The last “costume” I wore was at Burning Man and suffice to say, there wasn’t much of it. Fifteen years later, I don’t think they want to see me in that get-up, particularly when they show photos to their grandkids.
I shouldn’t be put off; we’re talking Chris and Nikki. They’re a wonderful couple, so cute you just want to barf. They finish each other’s sentences — and apologize for interrupting — smile at each other “just because” and hold hands. It makes me sick, so I know it’s a good merger.
Yet, I have mixed emotions about weddings. I usually bawl my eyes out in sheer happiness for the beautiful bride. Then I sob more for all the money spent! A friend of mine, I kid you not, spent $10,000! Not on the wedding, mind you, but the flowers alone. Yup. Ten. Thousand. Dollars.
Things like that make me have second and third thoughts of getting hitched — or re-hitched, as it is. So I attend or crash weddings to see if the antics are enough to change my mind — or solidify my stance.
The first wedding I ever attended, someone danced their way into the deep end of the pool; I think it was the bride. The groom meandered off with his buddies and was found later playing poker at a strip club.
The brother of the groom, not to be outdone, announced he’d proposed to some woman he’d just met while out smoking a cigarette at the curb. (That marriage lasted a year, and she never even moved in with him. Her dogs did, though.)
In the end, security? Police? National Guard? — I don’t remember — were involved.
Another wedding, in the park after a rainstorm (what could go wrong?), the groom passed out — into the mud and duck-muck that we ladies, in high heels, could not navigate without our shoes being sucked off. Slurp.
My high school best friend? Her wedding ended up in a mud fight.
I’ve crashed elaborate functions in Boulder and Aspen, Colorado and in Spot Bay, Cayman Brac — another event that involved police, who joined the wild festivities.
I’ve seen a cancelled wedding. You hear about that, but to actually be there when the bride’s mom makes the announcement? Harrowing. Except, in this case, the bride’s mom looked suspiciously … chipper. She later ran off with the groom. I kid you not.
I sat next to a woman at a friend’s wedding who was the mother of the bride’s ex-boyfriend. This mom sobbed all through the ceremony and, when I offered her a tissue, she went on and on about how happy she was that the bride was NOT marrying her son.
What do you say to something like that? Congratulations? I think I said, “No kidding.”
That bride ended up in total meltdown when her father’s car broke down en route to the reception and he couldn’t be there for the “First Dance.” She sat blubbering on the floor in a corner, buried in presents she was opening and tossing aside. Drama-rama!
The worst wedding I ever attended didn’t have an open bar. I immediately went home.
You can see why weddings give me pause.
And sure, my friends and I have mellowed over the years. We’ve taken up the finer things like “amicable divorces,” “Match.com,” and “swearing off (men/women) forever.”
Well, I ended up wearing a costume to Chris and Nikki’s wedding, and I am not going to elaborate. And today? The day after? If all y’all can just stay quiet for a few hours so we can recover from last night’s shenanigans, it’d be greatly appreciated.
Congrats, Nikki and Chris, my favorite ghouls!