And I thought my weekend was traumatic.
My poor coworker, Judy, was back at work today after spending the weekend in Maine. On Friday, she had confided in me that she and her fiance, Dan, were going to stay with friends and that while they were there, they were going to elope.
It was her second marriage, so Judy wanted something small and private. Just her and Dan on a beach with a Justice of the Peace and the friends with whom they were staying. Dan is a folk singer in the making; he wrote a love song and wanted to serenade her. He’s a shy guy, but he was comfortable singing in front of friends. Above all, they both wanted something intimate.
When I walked by her office this morning, I couldn’t wait to hear the details. I rushed in and asked, “How was it?”
“Strange! Terrible!” She burst into tears.
I nodded. Getting married is strange and terrible—but there was more.
What happened was this: Because they’re not familiar with the beaches of Maine, Dan and Judy told their friends to pick one for the ceremony. The day of the ceremony, the four piled into the van, along with Dan’s guitar and the Justice of the Peace, and headed off to...
“We got m-m-m-married in front of two h-h-h-h-hundred people I didn’t even k-k-k-know!” she blubbered.
Yes, instead of taking Dan and Judy to a secluded beach so they could wed, their friends brought them to a noisy carnival. Dan and Judy said their vows into a microphone in a gazebo—“Everyone was d-d-d-d-drunk and yelling!”—while onlookers snapped photos and whistled. When they were done, people chanted for Dan to sing.
“His v-v-v-voice was cracking he was so nervous. S-s-s-someone threw beads and hit him in the eye.”
When Judy finally stopped crying, I feebly said, "At least you'll always remember it."
Then I backed slowly out of her office, because a woman who has just said her vows in front of 200 drunken townies is probably mad enough to knock your teeth out. And I really don't want to start looking like a Mulletvillenite.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.