I'm 30. This is ridiculous.
This weekend in Saint Augustine was beautiful. Well, no, it was actually kind of misty and gray. But watching Patrick's cousin get married to her luv-ah, now that was beautiful. The wedding was on Friday night which seemed weird at first, but we ended up completely loving. Most weddings (mine included) are Saturday evening affairs. That's great, but it totally takes up the whole weekend. You prep most of the day Saturday, spend all evening at the wedding, stumble into bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning, get up at the slightly less-wee hours of the day and go home. Boo. Below is how I spent my Friday afternoon and evening.
Patrick and I rolled in to St. Augustine Friday, early afternoon, ready to rock and roll. I slapped on my makeup and fixed my hair. It was shiny, smooth, laying perfectly! Hooray! Patrick slipped into his newest suit and was lookin' FRESH. I put on my dress and strapped in to my favorite shoes ever. I looked as good as Patrick--for 15 minutes until we were ready to walk to the wedding.
It was humid outside and the wind was whipping around. The venue was only 2 or 3 blocks away from our hotel, so we hurried to get there and out of the wind (I, impressing some of Patrick's family along the way by not snapping an ankle in my heels. Tell me walking in heels isn't a skill?). In the few short minutes it took us to get to the venue, my hair was a tangled mess. I don't care how great you look or how beautiful your plum, suede peep-toe heels (with ankle straps) are--when the hair falls apart, the whole look goes, too. I did my best to finger comb it into submission, with no hope of any success. I chose not to look into a mirror. No one hit on me (besides Patrick, of course) which I presume to be entirely about my hair and no reflection on me otherwise.
The ceremony was on the rooftop overlooking the water at a venue called The White Room. It was beautiful and emotional and all other good things that weddings ought to be. After they were pronounced husband and wife, the wedding party disappeared somewhere to have pictures while we guests got the party started. Servers walked around with trays of mini-quiches and bacon-wrapped scallops (divine!). A table practically groaned under the weight of all the little edible bits of heaven. A couple of the men in the family later commented, separately, that they really liked "that warm stuff". Brie, fellas. That was brie. Oh, and did I mention the bar opened, too?
After a short while, the wedding party re-entered, was announced, and the new couple had clearly had a few rounds with a ballroom dance instructor, because they favored us with something much more interesting to watch than them just swaying in a tight circle for 3.5-4 minutes. Then we took our seats for a delicious dinner. Food was eaten, speeches were given, and it was finally time to start some dancing.
My favorite moment of the night was, perhaps, when the beautiful bride, ready to start shakin' her groove thang, took off her pretty, sparkly heels and lobbed them across the dance floor one at a time before beginning to break it down.
I recall a moment, during the dancing, when I went to the bar to get a glass of wine for myself, and a beer for Patrick. "Why," I thought, "is there such a bright light shining in my face?" I looked to my left to see the videographer's camera trained squarely on me. (And my hair! My limp, lifeless hair!) I apologize, B and K, if a shot of me looking horrified and saying, "Oh, Gawd!" makes it into your video. They startled me.
The reception, not long enough, but definitely fun enough, ended. After lighting our sparklers and successfully sending the couple off without setting anyone on fire, a huge gang of folks wandered over to A1A Ale Works, a bar in the same building as the wedding. I sipped on my water (such a good girl, I am!) while Patrick had a beer. After 30 minutes or an hour, I don't know, it seemed folks wanted to wander off to another bar nearby.
We all (and I don't know who "all" made up "we all") walked to a nearby bar with a whole $2 cover. I had no cash, but someone ponied up $20 to get most if not all of us in. As I started through the door, the bouncer asks me (not any of the other people, including several younger than I, who walked in before me, mind you) for my ID. I was perhaps slightly buzzy, and protested, "I forgot my ID. No, wait, I didn't forget my ID, I just didn't bring it! I'm 30 years old! This is ridiculous. I don't want to go in here anyway."
One of my finer moments.
Patrick, myself, and a two of our more partied out cousins walked back to the hotel. Upon entering the room and seeing a soft, comfy bed waiting for me, I realized that this, not that stupid bar where they had the nerve--the nerve!--to card me, was precisely where I needed to be. I ate a sandwich, washed, brushed, lotioned, and PJ'd, then climbed into bed. My feet ached, I'd eaten and drank too much, and I was exhausted. It had been a great evening, a great wedding. And we still had all Saturday and Sunday to go. I sighed and fell asleep in 2 nanoseconds.
Next time, I'll tell you how a little too much Christmas cheer had Patrick and I feeling like Grinches in beautiful historic downtown St. Augustine.
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| I could probably write a post about these. I won't. You're welcome. |
It was humid outside and the wind was whipping around. The venue was only 2 or 3 blocks away from our hotel, so we hurried to get there and out of the wind (I, impressing some of Patrick's family along the way by not snapping an ankle in my heels. Tell me walking in heels isn't a skill?). In the few short minutes it took us to get to the venue, my hair was a tangled mess. I don't care how great you look or how beautiful your plum, suede peep-toe heels (with ankle straps) are--when the hair falls apart, the whole look goes, too. I did my best to finger comb it into submission, with no hope of any success. I chose not to look into a mirror. No one hit on me (besides Patrick, of course) which I presume to be entirely about my hair and no reflection on me otherwise.
The ceremony was on the rooftop overlooking the water at a venue called The White Room. It was beautiful and emotional and all other good things that weddings ought to be. After they were pronounced husband and wife, the wedding party disappeared somewhere to have pictures while we guests got the party started. Servers walked around with trays of mini-quiches and bacon-wrapped scallops (divine!). A table practically groaned under the weight of all the little edible bits of heaven. A couple of the men in the family later commented, separately, that they really liked "that warm stuff". Brie, fellas. That was brie. Oh, and did I mention the bar opened, too?
After a short while, the wedding party re-entered, was announced, and the new couple had clearly had a few rounds with a ballroom dance instructor, because they favored us with something much more interesting to watch than them just swaying in a tight circle for 3.5-4 minutes. Then we took our seats for a delicious dinner. Food was eaten, speeches were given, and it was finally time to start some dancing.
My favorite moment of the night was, perhaps, when the beautiful bride, ready to start shakin' her groove thang, took off her pretty, sparkly heels and lobbed them across the dance floor one at a time before beginning to break it down.
I recall a moment, during the dancing, when I went to the bar to get a glass of wine for myself, and a beer for Patrick. "Why," I thought, "is there such a bright light shining in my face?" I looked to my left to see the videographer's camera trained squarely on me. (And my hair! My limp, lifeless hair!) I apologize, B and K, if a shot of me looking horrified and saying, "Oh, Gawd!" makes it into your video. They startled me.
The reception, not long enough, but definitely fun enough, ended. After lighting our sparklers and successfully sending the couple off without setting anyone on fire, a huge gang of folks wandered over to A1A Ale Works, a bar in the same building as the wedding. I sipped on my water (such a good girl, I am!) while Patrick had a beer. After 30 minutes or an hour, I don't know, it seemed folks wanted to wander off to another bar nearby.
We all (and I don't know who "all" made up "we all") walked to a nearby bar with a whole $2 cover. I had no cash, but someone ponied up $20 to get most if not all of us in. As I started through the door, the bouncer asks me (not any of the other people, including several younger than I, who walked in before me, mind you) for my ID. I was perhaps slightly buzzy, and protested, "I forgot my ID. No, wait, I didn't forget my ID, I just didn't bring it! I'm 30 years old! This is ridiculous. I don't want to go in here anyway."
One of my finer moments.
Patrick, myself, and a two of our more partied out cousins walked back to the hotel. Upon entering the room and seeing a soft, comfy bed waiting for me, I realized that this, not that stupid bar where they had the nerve--the nerve!--to card me, was precisely where I needed to be. I ate a sandwich, washed, brushed, lotioned, and PJ'd, then climbed into bed. My feet ached, I'd eaten and drank too much, and I was exhausted. It had been a great evening, a great wedding. And we still had all Saturday and Sunday to go. I sighed and fell asleep in 2 nanoseconds.
Next time, I'll tell you how a little too much Christmas cheer had Patrick and I feeling like Grinches in beautiful historic downtown St. Augustine.
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