Over the weekend, I attended my grandmother’s wedding in West Palm Beach, Florida. Yes, you read that correctly. What can I say? We’re the American family.
If you think drinking at Fairfield Beach defines a fun weekend, you’ve clearly never spent a Saturday night watching drunken 70-year-olds form a Conga line to “Mambo Number Five.”
After endlessly turning the wrong way while walking down the aisle at the rehearsal, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t screw up during the actual wedding.
It was probably the most stressful situation I’ve ever been in. “If you screw up, Kelly, you’re ruining the most important day of their lives,” I thought. “Left, together, right.”
I questioned whether I’d be able to stand in the wedding party line and get through 50 more rounds of “Oh my God! I remember you when you were just five years old!” But my doubts disappeared as the night progressed and the elderly folks found that alcohol flowed freely from the reception’s open bar.
The high point of the night was watching an elderly man accidentally fall into the pool (he was OK). The low point was undoubtedly when an elderly woman decided it would be “hip” to pull up her shirt and flash the crowd as she was dancing. Or maybe it was when an old man hit on me. It’s hard to decide.
But one thing’s for sure: it was one of the most memorable weekends of my life.
I come from a pretty wacky family. They’re great-you never know what they’re going to say or do, and being embarrassed by them is pointless. You just have to sit back and enjoy the show.
After watching the Conga line fiasco, I tried teaching my father the Electric Slide, but that just made him create his own dance in the middle of 15 very coordinated people. My grandmother really boogied out there; I’m pretty sure I saw her do the Jitterbug.
While in Florida, I stayed with my Uncle Alex and Aunt Susan, both incredibly kind-hearted, hysterical, health fanatics. I had never seen anything like it: every morning, they lined 20-plus vitamins on the kitchen counter and swallowed the whole bolus in one gulp. I make a face when I have to swallow a single pill.
My boyfriend is up for sainthood for reluctantly agreeing to sleep on the floor after being heartily threatened by my armed male relatives. My aunt and uncle’s dogs, Timmy and Digger, the pillow-humping machines, were relentless about trying to get into his room. They were very fond of him, poor guy.
On Sunday, we caught a flight to Atlanta, Ga., knowing we faced a blizzard in New England. There was a good chance we’d be sleeping in a terminal, so we stocked up on cheese crackers and cards for the gin rummy 500 championships. Although it took all day, ours was the only flight from Atlanta to make it to Connecticut.
But the adventure didn’t stop there. It took us an hour to find our luggage in baggage claim because it was mixed with the luggage of the flights from Ohio and Colorado that didn’t make it in.
Just when we thought we were home free, my little Volkswagen decided to act up. It refused to move from the snow bank it had burrowed itself into. After another hour of pushing, shoveling and first-gear, the little green guy budged and he spent the night in a church parking lot. It was the only place he could manage to get into without getting stuck.
As I closed my eyes that night, more exhausted than I had ever been, I thought about what my aunt said to me while we watched the elderly people get down on the dance floor.
“Every stage of your life is exciting and fun. We’re just getting a glimpse of a stage to come.”
She’s right. I sure hope I turn out as fun as my grandmother and her new husband, who I met over the weekend. There’s nothing more uplifting and inspiring than cherishing your life.
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