Pique N' Your Interest 

Internal dialogue of an un-spotless mind: The Wedding Edition

Weddings make me anxious – and I’m not referring to the predictable issues that grapple around lifetime commitment. I’ve attended at least 32 and a half ceremonies so far, ranging from lax beaches in Mexico to the cold cement floors of church basements in the Greater Toronto area. Regardless of the environment, a weird and creeping theme of claustrophobia has riddled them all – even the fun ones, and I’m not sure why.

A friend of mine suggested that I record, review and replay the nature of my pre-and post-synaptic dialogue by installing a metaphorical Whisper 2000 onto my brain. I concurred. The following is a compilation of several years’ worth of highly nonsensical processes restored at random…

How the hell did my mother convince me to wear this lacey doily of a dress? My neck is itchy. I like white. Although, if I had to take the plunge I’d go for a metallic blend of some sort. Is that guy with the green bolero wearing a toupee? Sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling. Catholic calisthenics. Please little ring boy snotting all over the pillow – run quickly and end this as soon as possible.

Don’t look at your sister. Don’t look at your sister. Oh no, I looked and she just made her lips do that buck teethed thing. Now I’m laughing and everyone else is quiet and crying. Laughing harder, hold it in, shoulders shaking, about to snort. Startling organ music. Laughing successfully muffled.

Where did we park the car again? Why are wedding halls always so humid even when they are air-conditioned? Thank God for open bars. I just knocked back three glasses of champagne and all I’ve eaten is a Cert and two handfuls of Cheerios. Cue alcohol induced heartburn. I’m hungry and I’m drunk. This woman who is talking very fast to me has red teeth. Lipstick or wine? Fourth cousin or old babysitter?

Feet crammed into last-minute heels. At least leather anklets were included. Suffer for fashion. No more hugging thanks. Someone is hugging me from behind. Choke hold hug. Heavy tweed smelling of musk. Uncle or old babysitter? It’s 9,000 degrees in here. I’m sweating like a portly man.

Lurking woman with disposable camera at 2 o’clock, lurking woman with disposable camera at 12 o’clock. Forced group shot, say cheese and don’t move. Chin down and to the left. Your thumb is in the way of the lens. I repeat, your thumb is covering the lens. Bright flash. Blue dots. Can’t see. Now I’m blind and hot and so f+++ing hungry that I’m going to walk next door to Subway, faint through the entranceway, wake up under a booth and order a large veggie. It’s likely air-conditioned there.

Stop staring. Stop staring into the hole that you’ve just burned into the chest of the agro caterer with the breadbaskets. Can’t she see we’re all hungry and drunk? No food until the speeches have ended. What if I tell her I’m hypoglycemic? Or is it hyper? Why is being whatever-glycemic the buzz way to say that you’re a person who needs to eat every two hours? Please everyone, be quiet and behave – including the friend of the eighth bridesmaid who is speaking too loud into the mic. Be quiet so the bride gives Bun Lady the bun distribution signal.

More Wine? Why yes I will, hot college student waiter boy dressed like a penguin.

Drink your water, wine and smile. Don’t think about food. Be social. No stay seated. No, be social. Okay, stay seated. Taking off shoes. No one will notice. We’re toasting the bride now. Mmmm Toast.

Oh no, a slide show. Celine Dion music. Didn’t Celine wear a 20-pound crown at her wedding to that bearded French dude who is practically her father? Bride as a baby getting bathed. And there’s the groom – yes, as a baby, getting bathed. Easter. Christmas. Prom shots. God almighty throw me a bun!

Blur of waiters. All five courses at once. Eat fast. Breathe. A piece of lasagna the size of a Buick. No more wine for me, but thanks for the offer, hot resourceful waiter boy. Was the bouquet just thrown across the dance floor at warp speed or was I just slipped a hallucinogen? That girl’s got arm! Oh no, passive-aggressive chicks on dance floor stalking crumpled bouquet.

Feeling ill now from Buick lasagna. Spinning room. Celine Dion. Musk.

Who just grabbed my hand? Flailing limbs and weak music. Poor sis is being perved-on by toupee man over dessert table. Back to dancing. Don’t regurgitate. Shake what your mama gave you. Kick from the hip. Rah Rah Rasputin! Damn, I love this song. Boney M Rocks! There goes my shoe. Leather anklet still on. Are those boys going for a doob? Hmm. No, I’ll fall asleep.

Dad stop hitting on my friends. Where are the ’80s tunes?

Where’s the bathroom?

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