Things like this happen when I make an internal observation that I’m ever-so-cool. That’s when I am brought face-to-face with a more humbling reality: I’m really not that cool at all.
Those moments – the ones where I cannot ignore the truth of my awkward-idity – arrive with such impeccable timing that they cannot be denied.
And they’re abetted by champagne.
So – I went to two weddings in one day, back in the day. Two cousins. Across town from each other and across a wide gulf in style.
The first, a lovely morning, mimosa brunch affair set in the Rose Gardens atthe Philbrook Mansion, timed to side-step the Oklahoma heat. The bride’s dainty flower girl wore a halo of baby’s breath. The pristine, tiered white cake had strawberries around the perimeter. The champagne flutes were frosted with sugar. And the Mumm was ice-cold.
I drank two.
As I replay the events of that day, it seems plain that I most likely arrived at the second soiree with a bit of that sugar glaze on the corners of my mouth. I hadn’t felt a thing. Imagine.
The mid-afternoon timing of this second cousin’s nuptials was an accommodation of the NASCAR schedule. She and her groom would catch a honeymoon flight to the Pocono race track where they would whoop it up as husband and wife.
Her vows were exchanged in the chilly confines of the Southside Baptist Church’s basement rec room. The ping pong tables were covered with white plastic sheets and the words “Patsy and James Together Forever,” stenciled in glitter and attached to 10lb. test weight fishing line were strung up between the Fire Marshall’s mandated utility windows.
Am I starting to sound snooty? Well. There you have it.
I had begun to feel my Scarlett O’Hara, perhaps the effect of a couple more – or was it three? – plastic cups overflowing with the bubbly.
I looked good for one thing, or so I thought, compared to my cousin’s country friends. I had the best hair. The best dress. The sexiest shoes.
It was in this superior state of mind that I took my Styrofoam plate with a big chunk of Sam’s Club wedding cake and a plastic fork and found myself a seat.
Rather than digging in right away though – how crass! – I sat and smiled serenely at my male cousins and their buddies who clearly had an eye for me.
I crossed my ankles, just so.
Oh, here comes Terry with his friend Junior. They certainly do have goofy grins.
“Hi Terry! Can’t believe Patsy’s tying the knot!” I admit it – champagne brings out my tendency toward the inane.
“Hey Carolyn!” This was Junior, giggling. Not the brightest bulb in the pack.
“You gonna eat that cake?” Now why, oh why would he ask that? And that infernal giggle. Honestly.
There was plenty of cake for everyone. But OK. I don’t want more cake today. He can have mine.
But when I went to hand him my serving, I found that the back of my left hand had eased onto the icing ever so gently and rested there like a goose settled onto a clutch of eggs. The weight of it had pushed that whipped confection out into fat bulges on each side.
My right hand, set palm-to-palm with my left, just as Miss Manners prescribes, allowed those down-turned digits to dip into the frosting also, giving them perfect sugary-white gooey fingertip caps.
That’s when those big corn-fed country boys burst out laughing and pointing to smarty-pants me.
I cannot recall the rest. I only hope the commotion didn’t draw too much attention away from the bride.
So you can see why it is with some trepidation that I prepare to attend a champagne ribbon-cutting ceremony this afternoon.
I don’t know if I can be trusted. What if they serve Moet & Chandon? Whatever will I do?
Therefore, I have a plan: Mr. Plath will accompany me. His instructions are to spirit me away immediately following the toast.
Fiddle dee dee!