Witness

If anyone sees a big red wagon with the words “Weight Watchers” emblazoned on the side of it, will you kindly point me to it? Because it’s bogglingly apparent after this weekend’s debauchery that I am no longer on it, and in fact, have strayed so far in a few short days that I’ll be shocked if I can even FIND it again, but I will, oh, I will! I will also cut myself some slack, because if there’s ever a time where fried chicken on a stick is appropriate, it’s when it’s medically necessary to soak up the gallons and gallons of gin consumed. (1,354,678 Flex PointsTM)

I’m hungover, is what I’m saying, and given that I rarely drink to excess, it was quite a momentous occasion. But: wedding! I went to a wedding this weekend – and not just any wedding, but the wedding of one of my very best friends. It’s kind of a big deal to see people you love get married, and while I was teetering in my very high heels at the altar, it occurred to me again that this was why Adam insisted that we have a wedding for our friends and family. Seeing someone you love go through that kind of (gag, but there is no other term) rite of passage is really exciting, and of course, Eve’s wedding didn’t disappoint.

I was the witness, and really, all that means is that I was the person designated to sign the marriage license to prove that two people actually got married that day. The concept seems sort of silly to me, given that there were also 150 other people there, and the only thing that made me any different from them was a sparkly green dress and gold mules, but I was more than happy to oblige. What this also meant, however, was that during the rehearsal, we failed to ask the priest (who was in his early 80s and married half of the groom’s family including his parents), when we were to sign it – before, during, or after the ceremony?

Ergo, through a series of strange circumstances, I ended up walking down the aisle with the unsigned marriage license tucked lumpily into my bra. However, this was not before I hauled ass down the aisle first – solo, in gold high heels – ahead of the everyone to scope out the crowd situation for the bride, and also to talk to Father Bob about the marriage license and its role in the ceremony or lack thereof. Considering I had three glasses of champagne in the limo in approximately six minutes, this went something like this:

J (breathless, tripping in high gold mules): FATHER BOB. I HAVE PAPERS IN MY BRA.

FB (a Catholic priest, mind you. Who is seated at the altar that I did not bow before running up the stairs and also wearing lots of fancy and complicated robes): Dear…what? I’m sorry dear.

J: I have the marriage license in my….uh, my dress. Do you want it? What do we do?

*gesticulates wildly towards boobs*

FB: Oh, um, I’ll ah, take them later. When you don’t have to, ah, pull them out of there.

J: [brightly] Okay!

Immediately following the ceremony, I did, however, have to do just that, which is to pull them out of my bosom and hand them over to him, suitably chagrined, because God, I reached into my boobs and pulled a suspicious-looking envelope from my breasts and handed them over to a priest.

I also proceeded to get slightly happy-drunk and love, rather annoyingly, on everyone at the wedding, which is what I do. I’ve never been an angry drinker – God, what would the point be? – and instead, morph into a much more loving version of myself, and unfortunately, this turns into inappropriate use of the words “I love you” to people I may or may not have just met, often shortly after introducing myself.

However, it was a truly stellar weekend, and as of this moment, I’m more than a little embittered that I am no longer drinking gin outside of a swanky historic hotel surrounded by 100 of my closest friends.

Hope your weekend was fantastic.

*Shannon Worrell

22 comments April 29th, 2007