I believe I’ve almost recovered from the weekend’s activities, and though there is some residual achiness, I don’t think there will be any permanent scars.
Some friends of mine got married Saturday evening, so of course, the groom was out Friday night pre-gaming the ceremony. It was not a bachelor party per se; while there were adult beverages involved, the festivities took place in a couple of bars populated by numerous members of the various sexes. There were no strippers involved, nor any other practitioners of the erotic arts, nor even, for that matter, a single woman who glanced at me twice without having that “oh god I wonder what happened to him?” look in her eyes. Damnit.
So pretty much a regular Friday, but with a few more shots.
I knew that Saturday had the potential to get a bit messy (I made sure I wrote my sermon on Thursday – I’m fortunate in that my congregation is very forgiving when it comes to me showing up Sunday mornings either hungover or still drunk), and sure enough, somehow I found myself once again forgetting to eat, and at the pub with friends around 2:00, continuing our Sisyphean attempts at emptying the place of beer (sweet suds-a-streaming, it's almost like they keep making more!).
Without going into too many details, the night involved a lovely wedding, getting to hang out with dolled-up friends, playing pool with strangers (one of whom called the next day informing me that they had the hat that I lost – I still don’t know how they knew my number), almost getting into a fight with another stranger (this is why I don’t go south of State Street, people …), a couple of ill-advised text messages, a three-mile slog home in tennis shoes through the slush (which took such physical effort that I am still a bit sore four days later), and a Sunday morning pocket full of crumpled-up receipts that I'm still afraid to look at.
It reminded me a great deal of my own wedding.
So a toast and well wishes to the newlyweds, and to whatever couple decides to go next … please have the common decency to wait at least six months.
6 years ago
2 comments:
Loooove those ill advised texts. Yes, I will marry you.
hehehe not THOSE texts - those were extremely well-advised. I'm talking about the ones to Dominos AND Pizza Hut at 2 am. Indy didn't need two large pizzas and hot wings.
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