Every now and then a weekend pops along and makes marriage and all the accompanying trivialities worth the annoyances and aggravations endured during daily life. Lucky me, this was one such weekend.
With my darling Boo acting as a groomsman for one of his dearest friends, I had the opportunity to watch my man in action and reminisce about the dashing young hero I once married. Long before he turned into my Boo, he was a tall drink of blonde water. Muscles rippled, teeth gleamed, hair was combed. And then, of course, he married me. Where his muscles relaxed, his teeth, well, they still gleam as I'd beat him if he forgot to brush his teeth because I'm sick of his messy, unkempt hair.
No, this weekend I got to watch my Boo prowl about in a tuxedo, and I will admit there were moments he took my breath away. (And I'm not talking about the moment where he got out of the shower and let one rip as I was putting my make up on. My eyes still water when I remember that one...)
And as my hubs strut his stuff like a prized peacock, I had the pleasure of riding herd over the groom's party. How a bunch of dudes can become successful businessmen, dedicated tradesmen, fathers and husbands and still not remember how to put on a tie or remember their socks, will remain a mystery. How four men, who could together build and run empires, can not manage a simple task like, say, getting to the church on time, will boggle my female mind for years to come.
That said, it was a beautiful wedding.
There was a downside to all the fun and merriment though.
In an effort to use my feminine wiles (unsuccessfully too, I might add) to gain control over my flock of 007 look-a-likes, I wore killer heels two days in a row. As though I haven't been through enough pain and torture this past year. Nope, it appears the suffering would continue.
Imagine, dear internet, if you will, a five foot eight, slightly inebriated blonde wearing four inch heels toddle about a gang of men while chirping at them to stand up straight, tie their shoes and spit out their gum. And that was only the night before the wedding. Then imagine, if you will, a five foot eight, slightly hung-over blonde wearing four inch heels chase after her posse while promising the beautiful bride that they would all arrive shiny, smiling and not bleeding. (Heck, two out of three ain't bad, right?)
Then picture this tottering, now stressed and sweating blonde, still wearing her heels and balancing a wine glass in either hand, do a poor impersonation of a thirteen year old girl trying to dance while not moving her feet and still look cool. (It didn't work then, I don't really know why I thought it would work now.) In my defense, at least when I just shuffled my feet and shook my arse, my feet didn't feel like they were being stabbed by hot forks up the heel.
I may have looked like a dork on the dance floor, but at least I was a tall dork . And to be honest, thanks to the diligent attention of my 007 agents, I had enough alcohol to dull the throbbing soon enough.
Which, of course, has led to a whole new type of throbbing as I sit here rubbing my still-sore feet and try and avoid the glare of my computer screen.
Good times, people, good times. It was a weekend to remember. And the lesson learned here: Stick with three inch heels. They look just as good and I can probably get a few more drinks in before I start reclining against the nearest shoulder in an effort not to impersonate the leaning tower of Pisa.