Reception Blues

Is there a word with more personal meanings than wedding?

To a happy couple, it seals the bond they've forged - making a pledge to love one another for the rest of their lives. To their parents, it's a bittersweet milestone - a marker of a job well done, as their children continue travelling down their own, separate road. To friends, it's a chance to welcome a new friend in their midst, as well as get blind, stinking drunk at the reception.

Yes, the reception. That mecca of hooking up, where booze flows like water, memory is a hazy dream and a chance for even the least talented to pull on their boogie shoes.

I find receptions to be kind of melancholy; I'm happy for my friends, but I inevitably feel my life passing by a little faster with each reception.

However, I was looking forward to this one, even though I really only knew the bride and groom and two friends who would be there. I didn't bring a date, because I didn't want to ruin my nearly perfect record of receptions without a date - my last girlfriend nearly lasted through two receptions, but she kicked me to the curb two weeks shy of the second one. C'est la vie.

Any hopes of hooking up at the reception were dashed within .002 seconds of my arrival. You can generally classify receptions pretty early on: your younger couples will have a great party reception, and there's several singles around - both men and women. But the older the couple, the more likely it's a family affair. It'll be a great party, but if you're looking for love, try the bar across the street.

Of course, there was a single woman sitting at my table, but . . .

The Electric Slide* started playing. "WHY DON'T YOU GO DANCE?" she bellowed while downing her sixth martini.

"Old war injury." I said. "Might cause the tremors to return."

"I THINK YOU SHOULD SING KARAOKE LATER." she shrieked. "WHAT SONG ARE YOU GOING TO SING?"

"Do they have anything by Joy Division? Husker Du? Old Cure songs?"

"OH YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE - MR. MELANCHOLY MUSIC."

Yep. And proud of it, I thought.

"MY GOAL TONIGHT IS TO GET YOU TO DO SOMETHING YOU'LL REGRET IN THE MORNING. DON'T YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING CRAZY? SOMETHING YOU DON'T WANT TO DO NOW BUT WILL NOT WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT IN THE MORNING?"

Jesus. Transference. "Look lady, fuck off, okay? Leave me alone. I don't want to fucking dance. I don't want to sing. I just want to sit here and drink and get comfortably numb! You don't know me. You're not me. If I want to dance, I'll fucking dance. Otherwise, shut the fuck up!" I didn't say it, but I thought it. My temper was flaring, my face was flushing and the hammer in my head was pounding away at the back of my eyeballs. I stood up and walked into the breezy night.

It was a rough week. It opened on a high note, but by mid-week, I was sure Trudy was going to have to be put to sleep, and my brother called home to let Mom know he had a detached retina - something that could permanently end his career. Oh, and my bathtub was apparently leaking again. I was getting pissed - at the world for threatening my brother's career and making my dog sick; at myself for watching anothe milestone come and go, with little to show for it. But moping in a parking lot wasn't going to help anything. Sitting at home alone was an even worse option.

After awhile, I returned to the room in time for the dollar dances. I watched a woman built like Marshall Faulk wrestle the bouquet out of three sets of grasping hands, and it made me laugh. I drank free beer and soda and learned some happy - yet highly confidential - news. I danced when the DJ played Shout (from Animal House). I didn't even think of beating the DJ with my shoe when he played Paradise by the Dashboard Light.*

The night ended. My antagonist was escorted out by two of her friends; judging from the way she bandied her cell phone, I was sure she's going to regret her bill in the morning. I hugged the bride, shook the groom's hand and headed home to bed.

Ultimately, Trudy recovered, and Mike's eye is healing well - but they're keeping him under observation for the next week. The bathtub might still be leaking, but I can deal with that (gasoline and matches are looking like a viable option, though). Sometimes, all you can do is laugh, go with the flow and dare to hope that everything will turn out for the best. And sometimes, despite the bad stuff, you need to put a smile on your face and celebrate - especially when life spirals out of your control. And what better place to celebrate than at a wedding?

*If I ever saunter down the aisle, there are three songs I'm banning from my reception: The Electric Slide, Paradise by the Dashboard Light and that damned Summer Loving song from Grease. If the DJ plays those songs, not only will he NOT be paid, he'll owe me $100 for each infraction AND a free ass kicking (me kicking his ass, that is). God, I hate Meat Loaf.