While most people's "wedding season" starts around April and ends around August, my Indian Summer wedding season held its opening weekend August 27th. Much like summer at the beach in Los Angeles, it finally showed up right around the time I was ready for it to be over. It's a time of year when I no longer want to care about being tan or pedicured. Come time for pumpkin spice lattes, I want to wear flannel and watch football, not spend my Saturdays in a pair of nude Spanx.
I have seven weddings this fall. Seven. Not this year. Not this spring and summer. This fall. My boyfriend and I are only going to six of them. "Only." The first stop on our fall tour was Des Moines, Iowa. Nothing says, "I do" like Des Moines.
After the Iowa trip, a friend asked, "Have you guys ever thought of saying no?"
Now that's an idea, I thought. "No," I said.
I must get this compulsion from my mom, who has never turned down an invitation in her life. I certainly don't get it from my dad who looks forward to social functions with the same sort of gusto he reserves for a colonoscopy. He once joked that he prefers funerals to weddings because they're less of a nuisance to attend. "You don't have to hang around afterward and mingle," he said. "No gift, no tux, no dancing, just a quick in and out."
But if I spent one recent weekend at a funeral instead of a wedding in wine country, I would have been deprived the pleasure of watching the newlyweds leave the ceremony on a pair of matching white stallions (seriously) snagging a pair of glittery gold Toms from a basket that said, "Dancing Shoes" (a nice touch) and accidentally asking Mrs. Wayne Gretzky if she got her dress at Target (let me explain).
I didn't know she was Wayne Gretzky's wife. And a lot of other women at the wedding were wearing the Missoni for Target dresses they waited tirelessly in line for earlier that week. When I congratulated her, saying, "You got one!" she said, "Got what?" I said, "A dress from Target!" Then she replied, confused and mildly horrified, "This is Giorgio Armani Collection."
Later in the evening, girls started gathering for the bouquet toss. This is typically the time of night I start sniffing around for cake pops. But after dating my boyfriend for four years I decided I should finally put myself in the hunt. I downed my glass of champagne and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. (I meant business.) Fortunately, he was oblivious to this; drinking Scotch at the bar with a group of guys who were equally as enamored with Wayne Gretzky's hair. I positioned myself in the middle of the pack with my hands at my sides like a gun fighter. After a loud, singsong-y "one, two, three!" the bouquet was hurled skyward, twirling through the air like a baton, ivory colored blossoms over celery green stems. I watched with anticipation as it made its descent... absolutely nowhere near me. It landed in not one, but two girls' hands, who proceeded to get entangled in an intense tug-of-war. I was waiting for a referee to declare it a jump ball. I went back to the bar. "Where have you been?" my boyfriend asked. "The bathroom," I replied.
Sitting on the shuttle back to the hotel, enjoying a plate of mini cupcakes and a plastic cup of wine I thought, who am I kidding? I love weddings.
I thought this until we decided to take the scenic route back to LA the next day. Turns out Highway One is about two hours too scenic when you're hungover. And when your boyfriend refuses to roll up the windows and insists you listen to football on the radio for eleven hours. "Am I hearing that right?" he shouted, "Jamaal Charles was taken out by the Detroit Lions' mascot?" I don't know how he could hear anything in that freezing cold wind tunnel. I was wrapped like a mummy in three different pashminas -- around my legs, my shoulders, like a turban around my head -- concentrating on not throwing up. It was enough to make me not want to go to the next wedding.
That sentiment lasted about as long as my manicure. By Thursday I was sneaking away from my computer, hooking myself into a strapless bra, slithering into a pair of Spanx, trying on dresses for the following weekend's wedding, excitedly.