The invite to my childhood friend’s wedding said “costumes encouraged” and so I arrive fully decked out with a blond bob wig, boa and long gown. Getting out of the car with my family I am suddenly nervous that I had overdressed. Fuck. What if I’m *that* girl? I catch a glimpse of a blue wig and breathe a sigh of relief.
An old friend (and former flame) spots me and approaches. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but take it from a guy who messed things up with you… he’ll regret it forever.” ::gulp:: I had prepared myself for the possible feeling of sadness at this wedding. However, as I watched Will and Charissa say their vows surrounded by family and friends in costumes, I am pleasantly surprised to feel nothing that even resembles sadness. Not even a distant cousin of sadness. Not even a weird uncle-in-law of sadness that you only see every other year at Christmas.
After the ceremony, we head into a simple but beautifully decorated barn for the reception. The first dance is over and couples are invited onto the dance floor. I sit there watching happy couples dance and finally a little sadness creeps in. Damn it. I resolve to a two-fold mission: 1. Get exceptionally drunk (Joseph was always the drunk one and I always had to take care of him) and 2. Find a DFM (see previous post for definition). I meet some new friends who become my accomplices and are bent on helping me with both endeavors.
Enter my mom and dad. They are introducing me to some old friends. Everyone is all smiles as they present their 23 year old son to me on a platter. He’s unfairly handsome with blond hair, piercing blue eyes and a huge nose. It’s a strange thing to like, I know. But there’s something very manly about a good-sized schnoz. Target acquired. The accomplices watch knowingly as he follows behind me.
For someone who’s used to dating older men, 23 feels slightly criminal. It doesn’t stop me, though, and neither does the fleeting thought “Is his mom watching?” when Jack leans in to kiss me.
The rest is a blur. A bonfire. Fire dancing. A bear hat photo shoot. A friend slipping me a condom and me scoffing. More making out back in my tent. It felt good. To be desired. To be touched and held. And no joke, someone had taught this boy how to kiss! When my sister crawled into the tent, it was a good excuse to pump the brakes.
The next morning can be summed up in one word: Ughhhhhhhhh.
Hello hangover. Haven’t felt you for quite some time. After dropping him off, we head back to change for the brunch. Wait. My head is pounding when a sickening thought comes to mind. This is a brunch for close friends and family. His parents will be there. The same parents who undoubtedly know why Jack didn’t come home last night?! YES. An awful, awkward resounding yes.
Note to self: don’t make out with the groom’s cousin next time. I walk in and he doesn’t look up. Got it. We’re playing this cool. “This seat is open” says his father and I find myself planted right beside his father and directly in front of his beaming mother. Eek. His parents still seem gung ho on selling their son to me with things like “Jack is in his first year of law school” and “Jack caters dinners for huge benefits” and “Jack knows his way around a boat.” I smile politely as I catch a few knowing glances from Jack. We both know what the deal is. It was an incredibly fun night but I won’t be moving to Michigan anytime soon and he won’t be done with law school for 3 years.
So Jack, look me up when your car insurance rate goes down.
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