This past weekend, I was up in Philly (again) for a wedding – for the girl whose bachelorette party I was at a few weekends ago. Now, I’ve been to weddings before, but she’s the first of our high school girlfriends to tie the knot and thus, this one was particularly special.
And especially sloppy.
Several factors contributed to that, not least of which were the open bar and the vodka shots served in wine glasses. I’d have felt guilty if the bride wasn’t participating in all the shenanigans with us. The generosity of the bartenders led to quick intoxication and a lot of time on the dance floor. We half-heartedly attempted some of our Flirty Fitness moves (no pole – oh well) and embraced the Cha Cha Slide and Cupid Shuffle.
(The lady with the cane is doing a better job than I did. Sad for me.)
My first clue that I may have over-imbibed was when I stopped being able to tell my right from my left during the dances. And the realization that I don’t even know the Cupid Shuffle. However, we continued our celebration, often berating the DJ for not taking our requests into account, but having a generally fabulous time. And then, all of a sudden it seemed, it was time to go home – via a ride from my mother.
(That’s love, by the way. Picking up your daughter and driving her home as she hangs her head out the window. Because she’s nothing but class, obviously. Thanks, Mom!)
The final straw, though? The one that really summed up my night? I fell out of my own bed.
Yeah, you read that right. I’m not exactly proud of myself, and I’m not sure how it happened, but it’s easily the first time since I was about four years old. Mama told me that she heard a thud and opened my door to investigate. And there I was – stuck between my bed and my wall – and laughing my head off.
I think it’s safe to say that the rest of the weekend was recovery of sorts.
I can’t wait until the professional pictures from the reception show up. That will be awesome.