It is lovely, isn’t it? The wedding was scheduled for 5:30pm and it started on time. We know this because we showed up at 5:40pm where we happened upon the bride patiently awaiting her moment of glory out in the foyer. Fortunately, her cubicle is right next to Jeff's and I believe she will forgive us once she sees our gift...which we haven't bought yet, but will now have to be nothing short of spectacular since we nearly destroyed her walk down the aisle. Indeed, we are probably going to have to spring for the china. It's an adorable Kate Spade pattern so perhaps after I buy it I'll just pretend it's mine for a few days. And seriously, the barware?Regardless of the fact that a cupboard full of highball glasses would be a complete waste of space for a family currently contemplating building an addition onto their kitchen in order to store their vast collection of sippy cups, the fireflies speak to me.
The wedding was followed by a reception at Providence Country Club. In no way was it similar to the reception Jeff and I had in the fellowship hall of the church we were married in. We served salad with our cake. And punch. Because what would a wedding reception in a church fellowship hall be without the requisite foamy punch? It's like the common denominator of churches everywhere. And, just so you know, we did not serve our church punch in highball glasses. That would have been wrong.
When a wedding invitation specifically
warns notes that dancing will be a high point on the reception agenda, it is more of an obligation than a request that you willfully and enthusiastically partake in the festivities. When Jeff read the invitation, I’m sure his only thought was, “Nice. I get to look at a golf course all evening.” Whereas mine was more along the lines of, “FREAK OUT! Now I have to come up with cocktail attire.”
This is just the sort of predicament that makes me break out in hives. For one thing, I am married to a guy with a much larger array of clothing options than I and he just doesn't get it. Jeff’s weight has fluctuated maybe 10lbs. since I married him nearly 9 years ago, whereas mine has fluctuated more like 60lbs. What this means for our shared closet is that he fits into EVERYTHING he has purchased over a 9-year span of time giving him a wealth of options from which to pick. That guy could walk into our closet blindfolded and come out holding multiple ensembles for pretty much any occasion. I, on the other hand, have no fewer than 5 different sizes of clothing on my side of the closet. This means that on any given day 80% of my wardrobe has the usefulness of a row of nuns' habits.
The remaining 20% of my closet has thus far worked just swimmingly for the vast majority of my daily grind. It's lamentable that more weddings are not held at say, the YMCA, for example. Because when it comes to gym wear, and pretty ratty gym wear at that, I have several sets of nearly identical items from which to pick. (As an aside, ownership of a lot of fitness apparel is not to be confused with being dedicated to working out, because that I am not. I just like to be ready to consider the option should I open my calendar one day and find it completely blank. As you can imagine, this rarely occurs.)
Mercifully, after several anxiety-filled days of shopping, I found something that I thought would be suitable. It required not only new shoes, but new underwear because, well, up until a couple weeks ago I was still wearing my old maternity underwear.
Did I mention that Peyton is now 20-months old? No?
My husband is one lucky, lucky man.
Regardless, a short celebration is in order because I now have a new $42 bra that the girls are much more elevated in. As that was about the only truly rewarding moment of my entire mall experience, I felt it worth mentioning. Predictably, after Victoria and I realigned the planets so to speak, I got a little neurotic that they were perhaps featuring too prominently in my overall look and decided a wrap might give me a false sense of security.
All in all, we really had quite a delightful time. We dined with other parents of small children - all of whom were marveling that we could actually hear each other speak, and that no one was incessantly asking us to cut their meat, or get them more milk, or that they didn't like what was on their plate. Dinner. With adults. What is this strange, yet blissful, phenomenom?
Finally, after dessert and much stalling, peer pressure prevailed and we ventured out onto the big square hardwood floor in the middle of the room.
What I experienced next was nothing short of a revelatory marriage moment.
My husband can dance.
I knew Jeff had an enviable sense of rhythm because he plays the bass, but he has never upon never wanted to dance with me – unless it is to some stupid slow song that you sway mindlessly to, and then he has been known to give in under duress. Not exactly ideal conditions for what could be a romantic interlude. But for what it's worth, I actually hate those slow songs myself. They feel like a cop-out. I like music with a driving beat you can feel and that makes you want to move. It’s the forbidden music of my youth and as an adult, I can’t get enough of it. So to see my husband, who has had an 8-year run of dance floor shunning, out there
grinding grooving...well, it was a sight to behold.
I'm not saying that the guy did backflips or spun on his head or anything, because neither of us have a move to speak of. All I'm saying is that due to a combination of factors our inhibitions reached new lows causing the merriment quotient to soar. And a DJ playing songs like this really helped because who can deny Flo Rida?
I think I totally scored in finding a mate, I really do. But at that reception, I felt like I had just
picked up the hottest guy in the club won the marriage lottery. Maybe a little of both. Which just goes to show, sometimes you need to throw your ego to the wind and shake things up a bit.