Monday, April 10, 2006

A wedding on Michigan Avenue is a spectacle I will probably never witness again, and its smooth, Swiss clockwork-like sensibility did Viv and Matt proud. “Fancy” begins to describe it, sorta, but the most important thing is whether the bride and groom are content with the proceedings. I think they were. The best to you both.

Another important thing is a live band that’s good and, holy goats almighty, stepping on a bridesmaid’s dress while the good live band is playing. This happened before we made it to the dance floor. Fortunately she didn’t fall flat on her face and only tripped a little. Unfortunately for me, what happened on the floor was a different matter entirely, a series of dismal steps I would’ve gladly traded for stepping on every dress and pant cuff in the room.

Usually I fare–not fare well, mind you, just fare–on the dance floor, but this time something was wrong. I felt clunky. An epic embarrassment. Cryogenic, even. Health teachers say only you can increase your self worth and personal esteem. Crock of shit. You see, there were these exquisite chocolate tarts flecked with 23kt gold. Four or five of those in your stomach and you are Bailey, Banks, and Biddle.