Exes and Excess

The ex’s weekend wedding went off without a hitch for the bride and groom. (Save the one that was intended.) For those of us merely attending the festivities, all hours before the wedding turned into a series of errors. There was comedy, why yes, but mostly errors.

The young woman about town that I was, I drank four glasses of wine before the Best Friend (BF) and I boarded the night flight to Chicago, and eventually found myself at the A Terminal’s five-table Sam Adams Brewery hitting both locals and visitors up for “social smoking” cigarettes. I slept the bulk of the 1.5-hour flight and awoke only when we hit turbulence on landing. I found myself slightly panicked under a cloak of darkness when I hatched; at some point over Pennsylvania I had covered my entire head with my jean jacket. I also have a record of calling my parents sometime after 11 pm. Central time.

I thankfully did not require or inspire the services of an air marshal, so not all was lost.

I really must stop drinking when I fly.

We awoke the next morning just slightly less fresh than young cherubs kissed by the dew of the dawn. Wedding Day! The BF decided it imperative that she replace one green halter dress purchased for the occasion with yet another green halter dress; I of course needed my hair coiffed in a fabulous Glamour-Do style to impress anyone I would know at the affair. Three hours later, after stopping thrice for directions, being sent once to a mall THAT NO LONGER EXISTED, settling for a MasterCuts styling that was surprisingly fashionable, and having the BF berate me for telling her she looked beautiful in the first green halter dress, we were on our way. (Note to readers: MapQuest clearly outperforms the Sandwich Artist at the Subway close to Milwaukee Avenue. We should get a lifetime of free Wow chips for the world of driving hurt experienced after stopping for his input.)

As expected, the wedding was beautiful. I was struck by how grown-up my ex looked, standing there in a tuxedo that I wondered if the bride had been forced to pick out for him due to his indecision. Family members I hadn’t seen for years had grown up or just grown older. The minister talked at length of the shared interests of the bride and groom – their love for the outdoors and playing sports and living life to its somehow uncliched fullest. Despite the heat, the bride exuded beauty and the groom made it through the whole ceremony without passing out. If two people could achieve it, this is what happiness must look like.

And as expected, the reception was fantastic. Friends from California, Hawaii and closer down the street made their way to witness the union and partake of a really nice open bar. I drank. Others drank. Both fogies and young bucks danced and my last-minute Parade of Shoes purchases managed to stay with me. At some point in the night I stumbled my way through a drunk rendition of The Gambler with two friends and a thankfully very sober band (sorry, pictures still unavailable at press time). We giggled ourselves silly as we smoked more social cigarettes, clapped for the breakdancing stylings of a five-year old nephew, and hugged both lifetime friends and those we had only just met while avoiding the bouquet toss.

And then I cried. Not the chest-beating, “Stella!” kind of crying. But I sat quietly, listening to his brother’s toast for the happy couple, and the tears just came. I didn’t cry because I wanted him back. I didn’t cry because I want the white picket fence. I didn’t even cry because I had to wear a “This ain’t your mama’s” shaping garment under my dress. Well, maybe that last one was part of it.

I cried because I just don’t know him anymore. It struck me as sad that I was familiar with the first pictures of the slide show and only the initial references made in the best man’s speech. I cried because I gave several years of love and friendship (and work, God damn it!) to a relationship that for all intents and purposes no longer exists. I cried because I know that I’ll never know him again. We’ve both moved on to lives with different scripts and supporting casts, and neither of us really plans to watch those reruns again for any reason other than nostalgia.

I eventually stopped crying. I also stopped counting at five glasses of white.

I really should stop drinking at weddings.