saturday night is for winners.

wedding attendance in a room full of wardies. it is always a rather uncomfortable charade, let's be honest. the bride is usually someone i spent my primary days with, and her new husband, more often than not is painfully awkward. it's okay, i look past it. however, i cannot look past the fact that not five minutes post arrival, the two socialites that i came with are virtually m.i.a., leaving me to fend for myself at the buffet table.

let's talk about that.

ah, the buffet table. a watering hole of agonizing conversation. i usually try my hardest to avoid eye contact, but their approach is so stealth and unavoidable. they don't need eye contact, these pros. ohhhh no. they need answers. and they'll do anything to get them. you know "them". those who've been gardening as you've ridden your bike down beachwood drive. they've seen you through braces, bad haircuts, and your wet-hair-to-church phase in high school. so, naturally, they're practically stalking the adult-ish you. pining for you to confess every detail. and they've strategically placed their questions while you reach for the salad tongs, seeing as you are unable to dodge them.

the dialogue:
mrs. x: miss courtney! how are you, dear?
myself: i'm fabulous, and yourself? [keeping conversation light, and to the point.]
x: great!
m: yes! good to see you... [walk away... walk away, fast.]
[arrive at table. forget drink. run into mrs. x.]
x: where are you sitting? i think i'd like to sit with you for awhile, you know... just catch up stuff!
m: oh... just over there. [point vaguely. get drink, return to table. she found it. along with mr. x. greaaat. sit down.]
x: so. tell us. where are you going to school?
m: utah state. [stuff face. less talking that way.]
mr. x: mrs. x, stop pestering the girl. she's eating. [bless you, sir.]
x: oh, she's fine. so, let's get to the goods. are you dating anyone? [she leans in. mr. x, suddenly now highly interested.]
m: [blank stare. still a full mouth.]
mom: whyyy no, she's not! [mom? where did you come from? perfect timing to make yourself reappear... shoot me while i'm down.]
x: i'm bold, i know. but i just had to ask! you're such a lovely girl. don't fret too much; it will come with time, dear.
m: [closed caesar salad mouth smile.] thank you.
mother dearest: she's not dating anyone, but ask her how many missionaries she's writing, mrs. x! [cue glare exchange between a daughter and her mother.] go ahead, ask her!  [clearly she is unaffected by glare exchanges.]
x: how many?
m: ohhh, i don't know... let's talk about something else.
x: come on... ten? twelve?
m: not sure... i'm moving this week! that's exciting!
mother dear: if not more! isn't that exciting! but none of them seriously. just friends.
x: well that's wonderful! good for you! you'll find him.
m: i'm just gonna go now....

but i don't. and i continue being victimized by the wardies. one food mouth shove at a time.

after such a traumatizing ritual, the bouquet toss is not for me. i take that back. the bouquet toss has never been for me. and i refuse to participate willingly. something about the idea of "you're next" just rubs me the wrong way. it is only under a forceful hand, the inability to exit the reception prior to, or sheer unlucky circumstance that i place myself in such a predicament. well, that, or my dear sweet parents are under some delusional impression that a bouquet toss is the ideal photo opportunity.

so i get stuck.

beyonce starts her jingle. girl-in-the-red-dress and i, well. we're the lucky ones... the only two. you heard me correctly. just the two of us. and an entire room of grandparents and single men checking out the merchandise. the d.j. starts his descend to number one, but the bride becomes too hasty as she chucks her handful on the number two. the roses fly over my head and into the corner behind me. we turn our heads to look.
    
"you gonna get that?" utters girl-in-the-red-dress. really? it is clear to everyone that this is not a standard toss.
"i guess..." my awkward body steps over to the almost dead flowers. then, the same awkward body raises the bouquet and says, "hey! i got it!".

the bride and i take quite the cumbersome photo, and i am out the door faster than you can say honeymoon. which i'm sure was leaps and bounds more uncomfortable than anything i experienced last night.

needless to say, no more weddings for a while. please.