THE MAGICAL DAY - THE RUNAROUND

My day began with grumblings from the mutant canine that needed to tinkle. I unleashed her from her cage. It was a beautiful morning, pleasant temperature and blue skies. The Lord had heeded my request and asked Mother Nature to spare our special day from the hurricane aftermath.

He had said, “You remember what it was like to be young and in love. Don’t rain on their parade.”

To which Mother Nature replied, “Are you saying I’m old? Maybe I’ll go find myself a creator who appreciates a mature and accomplished woman. It’s not like you’ve been hitting the Ab-Roller lately.”

On all levels, you must respect Womankind.

Both man and beast returned to the house relieved; mine was only mental. I sat down, turned on the TV, and began to organize my first craft project of the day. I had to craft my message of love in blue mini rhinestones on the bottom of Christa’s shoes. This had to be accomplished in time for Danza to deliver them to her, at the two-hour hair appointment all the ladies had scheduled for that morning. There I sat, with a horse that wanted to play and a cone-headed cat that was interested in my rhinestones—but more interested in avoiding playing with the horse. The next twenty minutes of my special day were spent with craft glue and rhinestones just small enough to be unaccommodating for man hands. Ultimately, I completed an “I ♥ U” on one of the shoes and called for a blow dryer. Heat was applied. Then it was time to rouse my best man and begin the day’s errands.

I got a little high-pitch and lispy. “Hello, people, it’s the wedding day. We need to be up, and we need to be organized. The love shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

My brother and Christa share some characteristics, mostly in the extended awakening to departure phase of their days. Here is how Christa and I make it on time to any event:

1. I ask, “How long will it take for you to get ready?” (30 minutes)
2. I multiply her response by her personally adjusted version of the space-time continuum. (1.6 X 30 = 48 minutes)
3. I then add an extra fifteen minutes to that total and subtract that from when we need to leave our house. ( 48 + 15 = 63 minutes)

Over time, I have refined my estimate of her personal adjustment to the space-time continuum to 1.6. The most accurate first read of this factor can be obtained by having her cook mac and cheese, then dividing the length of time she instinctively cooks the noodles by the time printed on the directions.

This extra time before departure allows me to postulate hypotheses on how she could possibly individually affect the space-time continuum, without displaying any outward signs of superpowers. I assume that is why she always bumps into stationary objects. She is playing catch-up with the earth’s orbit, since she exists in a slightly altered dimension, especially in the bathroom.

After that tangent, Matt was now functioning, and we began to load the minivan, now christened the “Love Shuttle.” We had several stops to make and activities all along the way. The first stop was the church, where we were delivering the guest book and pen, unity candle, and programs. We were also meeting up with Jenny, our exceptional bow-tying, pretty-making hired gun, to get the key to the reception hall for our next delivery. Jenny was in transit when we arrived, so we got to rest for a few minutes in the pews.

“I’m tired,” Matt said.

“Get your five minutes now, and we’ll try and get done in time to relax a bit before we need to be back here,” I replied.

He’d been on active duty for what, maybe an hour? So there I was, reclining in God’s house, with a brief moment to reflect on getting married that day.

“Why do I have so much crap to do?” I said out loud.

At some point long ago, I was told all I had to do was smile and be agreeable. I wasn’t told about my checklists, my errands, my battle with a possibly incurable disease (aka the crafties), my kidnapping, and the rest. Weren’t my responsibilities supposed to be over with popping the question? If we are going to find a way to compensate stay-at-home moms, surely we can compensate stay-at-home wedding planners or at least confer on them an Associate’s degree. And where was my beautiful bride? Had she gently risen from bed and stretched to the sweet melody of birds chirping? Might she be on her way to the hair salon to sip champagne and be fawned and cooed over by everyone? When we renew our vows, I’m going to be the bride! Who said I didn’t want to be pretty?

At the reception site, we drove around to the side door of the building to unload. We went in to find a cart we had heard about to move the goods in bulk. The cart was not in the reception hall. It was not anywhere visible. We asked the security guy if he knew anything. He told us to check with the facilities office. It was closed. Holy crap. It was two of us with too much to carry.

I had to use the restroom. As I turned the final corner on my way to the restroom, a beam of light shown down from heaven and illuminated the scene. No, wait. I just happened to glance into a darkened, seemingly deserted hallway and thought I saw the shadowed outline of a wheel of small diameter. The cart had been found! I wasn’t sure if the cart was trying not to be found, so I brought it into the bathroom with me so it wouldn’t sneak off, if the opportunity presented itself. Doubly sweet relief that next thirty seconds was.

We brought in the booze and set out the table-name cards, which began falling off their bases. Monkey balls! Repair was needed. If the crafties hadn’t influenced me to buy a fanny pack, stuff it full of craft supplies for the day’s potential emergencies, and wear it like my soon-to-be-outdated chastity belt, I might have panicked.

The florist came in, needed clarification; I gave it. Favors were out, and Mr. Puddy was displayed. I was on fire. Somebody find me a six-foot block of ice—I’ll use my knitting needles, some Ziploc bags, and this remote-control car engine to create a specialty cocktail spewing lobster. Suck it, Corey!
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival