The Wedding Guest.

As a wedding guest, you have two responsibilities: to bring a great gift and make the reception fun (unless of course you find yourself at a dry reception, in which case your responsibility shifts to having the obligatory glass of sweet tea and to making a quick exit). While engaging in the general merriment of my dear friends’ nuptial soiree, I developed a slight case of vino glasses (that’s the classier version of beer goggles, but beware as they’re just as likely to skew otherwise perfect vision and seem to cast everyone in a far rosier hue). I found a perfectly nice seeming young man who ensured that my wine glass was never empty and who was an awfully good kisser, I daresay.

Over the course of the evening, a wine-induced and highly-spastic conversation ensued in which I informed my new friend that I was driving to a nearby city to visit old friends the following morning. My new friend stated that he had caught a ride to the wedding, and, conveniently, that his home was in a city which was a mere detour from the interstate highway. He asked if I would mind giving him a ride in the morning, and at that particular moment, I was happy to oblige (the bad decisions begin here).

The following morning, I woke to a pounding headache and serious hangover. As I packed the contents of my suitcase and fought off the nausea, I remembered my promise from the previous night with serious dismay (as the drive to his home town takes approximately two hours). I briefly considered making a quick exit, however my guilty conscience wouldn’t allow it, and I sent the obligatory text.

“Hey, leaving in 15 minutes. Still need a ride?”

I was convinced that the odds were surely with me and that he was definitely far more hung over than I was. I’m not a gambler, but I was ready to bet that he would want to take it easy and just ride home with the guys. Clearly, I underestimated this little eager beaver. There he was: packed, dressed and ready to go. At that moment, a few things occurred to me.

First, and most importantly, NEVER trust your ability to assess a man’s appearance while seriously intoxicated. Now I make it a rule not to discriminate against red heads (or “gingers”, because I dearly love some gingers), however, in the light of day it was apparent that what I had taken for “strawberry blonde” the night before, was in fact a color that would put Ronald McDonald to shame. Not that I hold anything against redheads, but this RED required the use of very dark sunglasses and keeping two extremely blurry eyes on the road.

My second startling realization was that God does, indeed, have a sense of humor. The conversation went from bad to worse as we stumbled through awkward pleasantries (oh yes, we even talked about the weather), while both pretending that we had not had too much to drink the night before and forgotten 95% of every subject previously covered (a result of the alcohol amnesia effect, mind you).

The very best part of this never-ending, seventy-five hour drive was the tour of his neighborhood as we pulled into town. As we drove past ivy-covered houses complete with picket fences and golden retrievers, I mentally began to reassess the boy before me (who suddenly seemed very man-ish). Wow, any person who could own a house like this at twenty-five must be doing something right. I was so impressed by his accomplishments and the stylishness of his neighborhood that I couldn’t help but tell him.

”You know, your neighborhood is really beautiful. I love it.”

To which he replied, “Yes, my parents do really well. I live in the basement now, but we’re about to move and I’ll be taking the pool house.”

Do I even need to say it?

This was only made better when he tried to recreate the previous night’s romantic kissing scene after we pulled into the driveway and he waved at his mother.

Gotta love those family moments. Xoxoxo

Skipper