Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wedding Crasher: Part II
Saturday morning I was in full primp mode. Nails painted, eyebrows tweezed, legs shaved, Spanx squeezed into. Then came the wardrobe crisis—black, strapless Nanette Lepore or fun, flirty polka dots with a tulle underlay? Would the Irish folk appreciate my electric blue suede peep-toes with the ruffle detail, or should I keep it classic in black satin? I decided to text Billy Blue to see exactly what sort of nuptials I was about to attend.
BB: After wedding we party on a boat. Boarding is at 6:30 P.M.
BOAT!? BOAT!? My stomach dropped and panic set in. The last time I was on a boat was this past summer for a Mad River-sponsored booze cruise, in which I was a deep shade of olive green, nauseas and unable to consume alcohol for the entirety of the three-hour ride. Frantically, I dug through my drawers to find my bottle of Dramamine, which had expired six months ago but was my only saving grace at this point considering Billy was picking me up in less than twenty minutes.
I did a final spritz of my Lanvin D’Arpege and was out the door to my awaiting chariot (ok so it was an ’01 Volvo with a missing sideview mirror, but a chariot nonetheless). Billy looked dashing in his tux. I took a deep breath and buckled my seat belt. Here goes nothing, I thought to myself. If nothing else, this is great material.
“So is this one of those super long wedding ceremonies or are they an “in-and-out, let’s get to the party” kind of couple?” I inquired about the ceremony. I was hoping it was the latter but, of course, it was the former.
“What do you consider long?” Billy asked as he handed me the program for the ceremony, which was a good twelve pages, front and back, ten-point font.
“Umm, anything more than twenty minutes.” I replied without ease. I didn’t like to stay in churches for an extended period of time, for fear that the walls would start to tremble or a fire would spontaneously combust in the pew where I was sitting.
“We’re Roman Catholic. It’s definitely more than twenty minutes.” Billy replied with a chuckle.
I decided to change the topic. Why dwell on the fact that I would be in a church longer on this day than I had been cumulatively for the past three years?
“So, any pertinent information I should know about your family members? Any topics that shouldn’t be broached?” I asked.
“Well, let’s not discuss your sex columnist hobby for starters. My mother would croak,” he replied.
“Understandable,” I respectfully responded, nodding my head assertively. Little did Billy know that my mother is one of my biggest supporters and has read every single article I’ve ever written.
“Also, umm, well you might get some weird looks when I introduce you to people,” Billy added with uncertainty.
I nervously laughed, unsure of where his comment was going. “And why would that be?” I asked, unconvinced that I wanted a truthful answer.
“Well, everyone will be expecting my ex as my date. And most of my relatives have met her before, at least once, so they might just be a little surprised to see someone new,” he answered.
I let this information process for a minute before responding. “So when exactly did you two break-up? And how long did you date?” I asked as I nervously fiddled with my Blackberry. This car ride was getting more and more awkward by the minute.
“We broke up a few months ago and were together for almost two years.”
My head involuntarily rolled back and I stared in silence at the ceiling of his car. F*ck me.
“So I’m your back-up date.” I stated rather than asked.
“Well she was originally invited, back when we were together. So…yes?” he replied with severe hesitation, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the Long Island Expressway.
Back when we were together? It was effing sixty days ago! It hit me all at once. Not only was I the back-up date, I was the rebound…
Posted by Bubble Girl at 12:59 PM