Exactly one year ago August first, our youngest daughter got married. It was a gorgeous day: sunny, warm, low humidity. Pert-near perfect. It was a late afternoon wedding, and my daughters and I spent a leisurely morning and early afternoon getting ready. It was low stress and almost pure fun. We got to the wedding site where our older daughter did her sister’s hair and makeup before doing her own. All the bridal party assembled, on time, and we laughed and talked and enjoyed the hell out of ourselves.
The only fly in the ointment was that the judge who was marrying the happy couple didn’t arrive until about five minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. About 15 minutes before he got there, the bride-to-be asked the wedding coordinator, Julie, if he was there yet. Bless her heart – Julie put her hand soothingly on our daughter’s arm, took a deep breath, and very quietly replied, “Not yet. But I have a handful of people to call last-minute if the need arises, which it won’t. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
And other than our then 4-year-old granddaughter balking momentarily at the flowers she was to carry down the aisle, the ceremony went off without a hitch.
And the reception – perfect! The food was wonderful, the drinks flowed…. And flowed. And flowed. AND flowed.
It was never my intention to get drunk; it just kind of snuck up on me, which was becoming terrifyingly normal. I didn’t get blackout drunk, unfortunately. I remember each and every cringe-worthy detail: every slurred word in the discussion as my husband drove home afterward. Complaining about unloading the leftover food from the car and storing it in the fridge. Losing my balance and almost falling over as I got undressed.
And that night was one of my final drunks as I finally decided that I. Had. To. STOP.
I wish I could have a do-over, but obviously that’s not possible. I still have overwhelmingly wonderful memories of the day. Just wish it ended differently.
But I can’t change the past.