As I mentioned on Friday, I went to a wedding this weekend. There were several people there whom I hadn’t seen for a year or so, and we all ended up at the same table at the reception, which was excellent. To back up, though, I went to a party the previous night for a friend from a different circle (this would be choral vs. newspaper, for those keeping track). The party didn’t start till 10:00, and as I’ve been in the habit of going to bed around 10:30, I had a cup of coffee before leaving. This was a great idea. The bad idea was to absentmindedly have a rum and coke at the party. Waaaay too much caffeine for 11:30pm. I went home, totally overcaffeinated, and ended up with about 4 hours of sleep before waking up to get ready for the wedding.
The wedding was beautiful (as Basilica weddings generally are), and after the customary picture on the steps of the Dome, we went to a lunch reception on-campus. After a leisurely lunch, we still had over three hours to kill until the actual reception, so I relaxed and tried to take a nap. Then we headed out for the cocktail hour.
(I would recommend turning on this video and letting it play in the background as you continue reading)
The cocktail hour was in the lobby of an old theatre downtown. We walked in to Vivaldi, and soon realized that it was being played by an actual string quartet, sitting up in a second floor balcony, silhouetted against a 20 foot window that was draped in velvet. There were waiters walking around offering hors-d’oeuvres that were high-class enough to not be immediately identifiable (no cheese and crackers here). I had what I think was a piece of raw salmon on pumpernickel with dill sauce. It was fantastic, but try as I might, I never crossed paths with that particular waiter again.
After an hour of mingling, we went to the dinner portion of the evening, which was in a ballroom. Nick would have died at the fact that the whole room was dance floor. Instead of the standard wedding party entrance, the DJ introduced each part of the wedding party, who then stepped out onto a balcony above the guests and waved. Very royal wedding.
Dinner was fantastic, of course, and the DJ played Sinatra for a good portion of the night. The newlyweds and parents (whom we had never met, but who swore they had met us) circulated, greeting people and encouraging us to get our money’s worth out of the open bar. Finally, knowing I had to sing for Mass early in the morning, we left.
Since my caffeine misjudgment had haunted me the night before, I was looking forward to getting a solid block of sleep. That was when I realized that my zipper was stuck. Completely. Stuck. It went down about four inches and then stopped, about three inches short of where I would have been able to squeeze free. Since one does not hastily cut open an Ann Taylor dress – especially a dress belonging to one’s sister – I slept in it. The boning in the bodice, as well as my hope that it wouldn’t get too wrinkled before Mass, did not make for a good rest.
The next morning, I discovered to my delight (well, as much as one can be delighted while positively stuck) that the fabric was seemingly wrinkle-proof. So, the only people who knew my secret were my date from the previous night and Katie, who I told, as our relationship is based at least in part on sharing embarrassing stories with each other.
Em happened to be coming over in the afternoon, and we discovered then that one single, solitary tooth of the zipper had gone astray. Talk about being a slave to fashion. We managed to get it open by using the ancient seamstress trick of pulling really hard, thus avoiding scissors.
Needless to say, I slept very, very well last night.