Real Love

It’s wedding season in Missouri, which means every other Saturday I squeeze into my least runny pair of panty hose, line my eyes with expensive bat poop [is this a myth, or is eyeliner still made with sh*t??], and try to get a little extra life out of a dress that should’ve been put down seasons ago. I consume grotesque portions of foods containing what would be a week’s worth of calories for your average European. I accidentally eat veal. I dance with uncles and cousins, befriend moms, smile civilly at exes. I drink 1-5 drinks; and depending which end of that scale I land on, I either a) stand at the edges of the dance floor eating thirds of cake or b) do the Charleston to Al Green (if you have a weird picture in your head, good! my words have accurately conveyed my wedding dance style) until the DJ packs it up and the only people left are assorted drunk aunts, the weeping bride, and her coterie of consolatory friends.


Me at every wedding.

Hell, I love a good wedding. And I love love. I’m no codger when it comes to romance.
Cell phones at the dinner table? Show some respect, you @#&ing twerps!
Loud music after 11? I’ve got the cops on speed dial and p.s. Skrillex has stupid hair!
Miley and Justin? Ugh, get off my lawn! And stop being so naked! And tongues are a shameful body part, certainly nothing to be proud of!

But love is beautiful, and there should be as much of it as possible. Gay love, straight love, old love, young love (though not love before the age of 23 — I shake my fist at thee and express doubt that what you’re feeling is actually love and not Sex). Some weddings are just like: Eh, yawn, you’re welcome for the bamboo colander. Now gimme some cakeBut some weddings are affairs of big, true, Real Love. When this happens, it’s obvious in the way the couple beam at each other. There’s, like, I dunno, something going on with the eyes there that you can’t fake. (And trust me — I’ve tried. Alone, in the bathroom mirror.)


Tangentially: I’m so happy that gay marriage is a juggernaut in our country right now, barreling from one court to the next and taking very few prisoners. Illinois just fell. ILLINOIS. Which, as you might know, is not comprised solely of Chicago. All these conservative rural people now live in a state where love is encouraged and celebrated. Real Love — the beam-y, eye-thingie type. Ha!

Where was I going with this? I dunno. Last weekend was my beloved cousin’s wedding, and tomorrow is an old, dear friend’s. I’ve known her since we were little bebes splashing around in plastic kiddie pools together. The love between her and her man seems to be the real kind, and I can’t wait to attend her rock-n-roll wedding tomorrow and shower her with gifts of kitchenware and eat a bunch of cake and possibly — okay, probably — dance the Charleston.


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