I don't have the patience to tap out a whole entry on the joystorm that was this past weekend, The Wedding, but I want to recount one story.
Sunday, at about 1:00 PM, I sat outside the salon where my hair had just been done. Now, I should explain that I had two responsibilities over the course of this weekend: to
(a) look progressively prettier, day by day, until finally my appearance could only be described in the language of the angels;
and (b) not fall down.
In service of (a), I was at the salon to have this crazy headpiece made out of pearls and fake white flowers and silver wire woven into my hair, and frankly, I was apprehensive. It had been last worn by a member of my family in the 1970s, although it also looks like it could do quite well in a regional production of Midsummer Night's Dream. Hours after I went in, I emerged from the salon, headpiece attached, make up done, as classy as I was ever going to look, and as I sat on a bench wating for my brother to pick me up, I attracted quite a lot of attention from passersby. Trouble is, when people stop and stare at you, you can't automtically tell whether it's because you look like a semitic Jackie Onassis or because you look like you wandered out of their last acid trip.
Luckily, one lady didn't just do a double-take; she actually doubled back to speak to me.
"My GAWD," she twanged, hand over heart, "you look so beautiful! You look just like I did before MY first marriage!"
And that was how I knew everything was going to be all right.