That's us, lo those eight years ago
Last weekend the Mister and I went to a wedding. Two hipster types getting hitched. Lots of women in vintage, fur-trimmed dresses, men in porkpie hats. Boiled peanuts as appetizers, conversations about Burning Man. Not exactly my scene, but it was fun just the same.
I especially liked the vows. One of the main benefits of going to weddings as an old married couple is the little bit of love water that rains down on your own union when you witness all that fresh, gushing talk of love and commitment. (And yes, I realize "love water" has about a hundred unseemly connotations. Heads out of the gutter, people; I'm being heartfelt here). Plus they read this poem by Richard Brautigan, which was just great. A lovely time was had, right down to the masquerade ball masks we got as favors and the pulled pork we ate for dinner.
But then there is the issue of red wine.
I am a terrible drinker. Maybe it's my Jewish genes, maybe it's my thick blood. Whatever the reason, drinking never works out for me. First of all, I'm a total lightweight. Secondly, sipping is just not part of my makeup. Low tolerance coupled with an innate tendency toward gulping is an unfortunate burden. It's not that I'm particularly badly behaved. I can get pretty maudlin but there's no sloppy karaoke or sobbing declarations of love. It's just that the aftermath of any drinking is fraught with so much cringing self-recrimination (you idiot!), it completely cancels out any of the previous night's fun. It's this self-inflicted cycle of pain with a really good party and occasional disco dancing in between.