Well, the wedding was, of course, lovely.
We got into town on Thursday afternoon, shopped like crazy people (I’ve got the cutest shoes now: these little peep-toe…okay, okay), and then held down a booth at Popover Cafe for hours on end so that our dearly-missed NYC friends could straggle in (confusing the hell out of the poor waiter, who was really, really trying to remember who’d ordered what).
Friday was mani-pedi day for me while Nick went to pick up his spur-of-the-moment suit (and shirt…and tie…and shoes, as it turned out–he doesn’t get to shop alone anymore). I found a nice enough little spa near Andrea’s office (see me planning ahead?), chose a tastefully understated mauvy pink, and settled into the pampering. Until, that is, I smudged not one but three nails before I’d even paid, causing the obscenely-patient-up-until-then nail tech to tersely inform me that “[I] really need to be careful!” And this, I now recall, is why I stopped paying perfectly good money for nails that I am absolutely guaranteed to destroy in short order.
I stopped in to see Andrea after, who loaded me down with French teenage-girl books and conscientiously prevented me from shaking anyone’s hand (I would get my nails done regularly if she would just follow me around pointing out what I shouldn’t do all the time). And then I got stuck in a downpour right around taxi-drivers’ shift change with my paper sack of books, which naturally ripped while I hailed “off-duty” cab after “off-duty” cab until I found one who was on his way to the Upper West Side anyway. And proceeded to tip him like he’d just given my puppy mouth-to-mouth, which, now that I think about it, I probably could’ve just informed the first few drivers that I was prepared to do, and skipped the half-hour soak.
The rehearsal dinner was at Il Cortile, and if the chance ever comes, you should go. So good, and so, so much food. So very much food, in fact, that I felt stuffed in spite of not having much else at all that day, which was part of an unfortunate pattern that led to me suddenly feeling like I hyperventilating in the middle of the wedding reception the next evening, misattributing it to jet lag, and leaving earlier than I had hoped. Woke up at 3:30am so hungry I thought the rumbling would wake the whole building, so on Sunday I ate everything I could get my hands on, including a king-sized almond Snickers, which they so don’t have in France (tempura udon either, generally speaking). And now I feel better.
But I’m skipping.
Saturday morning we went for a run in Central Park (four miles followed by a moderately-sized bagel, then nothing else until 8:00pm–see where I screwed up?), where there was some kind of road race going on. The emergency personnel on hand, unwilling to discriminate against those of us not wearing numbers, cheered and applauded non-stop as we went by; they should just hire people to do that everywhere that I run.
And then it was off to the salon for me (I hear Nick napped), where we got all pretty and assembled last-minute programs and pew bows, and then the reception site to sip champagne (further stupid from me) and get dressed:
And then to the church, so that the last of the three of us could get married off and live happily ever after–which, naturally, we all intend to do.
And I think I mentioned the rest, except that the band at the reception was very, very good, as was the food. Such a shame that I couldn’t eat it quickly enough to balance out the rest of the day, but we made it through to the cupcakes, and then were home in bed a bit before midnight.
And now it’s sunny South Carolina, and that’s…a whole other thing. Which I’ll have to get to later, because right now I’ve got a bit of a burn plus a glass of not-especially-bad chardonnay to nurse. Maybe in that order; maybe not.