I am not good at going to weddings. I have been in several and acquitted myself tolerably well but when it comes to being a guest I am hot garbage. Andy was a groomsman in a very fancy society wedding a couple years ago, and insisted that Charlie and I attend. I ended up sadly removing my torn pantyhose in Andy's Hyundai while young Charlie slept in a puddle of his own pee in his car seat behind me. And that was not the lowest point of the evening.
This weekend one of Andy's best friends is getting married and Andy is once again in the wedding. I couldn't be happier for the lovely couple but I could be a lot happier for me.
It started as we were in the hotel dressing for the rehearsal. I was about to put on my adorable gray flats when I realized that would be difficult since they were jauntily resting on the bench in our bedroom several hours away. So of course I couldn't wear the nice pants I'd brought with the scummy flip flops I'd worn in the car so I had to wear the jeans I'd been wearing to make the flip flops less obtrusive. After a small panic attack and an emergency phone call to Best Friend Nicole, I decided to go and see what the rest of the women attending the rehearsal were wearing and decide if I should inflict my farmer attire on them. We screeched to the church and Andy jumped out to go rehearse. I sat, stalker-like, in the church parking lot but apparently everyone had gone in already. So I figured the rehearsal itself wouldn't last too long so I'd just wait and see what everyone was wearing when it was over and they came out. 45 minutes of watching "Frasier" on Netflix later, Andy texted me and said the rehearsal was almost over and all the women in the very small group were wearing dresses. I couldn't go in. The janitor was dressed more nicely than I was. So I decided to take my offensive denim clad self back to the hotel and get a pizza on the way to make myself feel better. Toppings? Pepperoni and shame. I got my pizza and got back in the car and ate a slice while sitting in the car contemplating my own absurdity and then I realized Andy had our damn room key. And he was off merrily eating barbecue with the rest of the well-dressed people.
So here I sit, huddled in that same Hyundai, miserably stuffing my face with pizza and waiting for someone to call the police about a suspicious vehicle containing a chubby girl wearing inappropriate jeans and blubbering about tossed salad and scrambled eggs.
Happy wedding.
UPDATE: I made it back to the hotel and promptly locked myself out of the hotel room. But at least I was barefoot.
