Even

The jitters didn't hit me until about 1 pm. Before that, I had far too many duties to accomplish for The Wedding to give it much headspace. MF and I were to meet with the Wedding Coordinator, 9 am Saturday morning, to finalize details; the order of the reception, the site measurements, new upholsteries, decorators and the like. So what with having to stop for MF's sausage, egg and cheese McMuffin (and Diet Coke), and the ridiculously crap directions we got from Yahoo (which I cursed under my breath, much like the now dead-to-me MapQuest, which got us bloodcurdlingly lost trying to get to a wedding two weeks ago) we were running a little late, and I was a bit too pissed off to be thinking about it.

The coffee at the hotel was fabulous. The rehearsal dinner finally crystallized and last minute details (such as replacing the emcee Bridesmaid #2 robbed me of) were settled and styled with aplomb. The new carpeting and installed sconces go with all my colors. (And before you ask, no, I didn't make them reupholster. It was a corporate decision... Really.) Sound systems were discussed, head counts pre-tallied, the childrens' menu reviewed. MF looked wickedly bored, but at least it got done.

But at 1 pm, the jitters arrived. Imagine an amalgam of your physiological response to going on stage in front of a packed house; out on a first date with someone you really like; and sitting in a cold sweat reading National Geographic while the smell of novacaine emanates from beneath the ante door at the dentist's office. Not cool.

What to do? Well, *chortle* cardio, of course.

After a set each of cardio and circuit training, ten minutes of ab work and some stretches, I was waaaaay calm. I picked out my dress and accessories, sewed on a torn button and hopped in the shower. Regular shower, nothing special (shaving hardly counts). Regular lotion and body spray, nothing special. Decided which way to wear my hair, slathered on product accordingly, predried it and pinned it back for makeup application. Began the transformation.

Now, I'm not going to say that I spent loads of time on my face. I spent more time than I generally do and actually used 75% of my products (which is an accomplishment, given the size of my makeup vanity). I brought out the eyebrow gel and whatnot... You know, for definition. I spent a bit longer making sure the shadows of my eyes and hollows of my cheeks were correct for an evening cocktail function. Eyelashes: extra long. Picked out the correct shade of lipstick so I wouldn't look overdone. Finished applying the last swipe of luminescent pearl pink to my pout and then looked up into the mirror. Oh my God.

I had to pray. I did pray. Because the image staring back at me was exciting. I was pretty. So pretty I was embarrassed. So pretty I felt ashamed. So I prayed. "Sorry Lord. This is not about me. Help me remember this is not about me. I don't want anyone to see me. I want them to see You. Sorry I think I'm pretty. Sorry." Bizarre.

Pulled hair down and blew straight. Put individual hairs in place and got dressed. Okay... Inhale. Smooth and check. Stand up straight.

"Ann Taylor Loft empire-waisted-A-line-halter dress? Check. Black sheer wrap with beaded fringe? Check. Strappy black sandals that hurt my feet," (but look, er, strappy), "? Check. Black and," (fake) "diamond chandelier earrings? Check. Black beaded evening clutch purse? Check. Black and silver bangle bracelets? Check. Cleaned and polished engagement ring? Check."

And with that I was out the door looking (I thought) glamorous but not overdone, and driving to pick up MF.

I asked him how I looked (you know, "Do I look pretty?" *bat eyelashes, bat eyelashes*) he wouldn't even respond. The hanging implication? He knew I knew I looked good and he wasn't going to stoop to my level. "No, you look terrible." *eye roll*

But I wasn't nervous. That's the benefit of having an objective and level headed man. He didn't hype me up. He didn't have to coach me. We just blasted a 90's mix on the way and behaved as if it were any other evening.

MF and I have more fun by ourselves than we ever do in the company of a crowd, even with our closest and most entertaining friends. We know exactly how to amuse one another -- our secret language of roaring humor and tender snark infiltrates and transcends every situation.

We pulled into the parking lot. The people emerging from their cars looked familiar. Suddenly my fears of forgetting people's names vanished. I remembered nearly everyone. But much like a spy in enemy camp, no one had noticed me -- yet.

Physically walking in the door was the hardest part. We reached check-in and I opened my mouth to tell Allison T. my name. "Hey, Miss WG! How are ya'?" She was a cheerleader and all around go-getter all the way through school. She's also one of a handful of kids I had known since I was 3 when we attended nursery school together. She smiled and looked (do my eyes deceive me?) genuinely happy to see me. I thought to myself as I moved to the next table, "She looks just like her mother."

The next check-in table was manned by Matt, who used to sit in front of me in Social Studies. I remembered him as a nice enough guy, a little closed off and preppy for my taste, but fairly pleasant. But he had generally strained under the weight of his squeaky clean image. It was almost painful to watch him in 11th grade. But this version of Matt was balding and (I swear) beaming. He looked loose, happy, calm. He shook my hand firmly. "Good to see you WG. Do you have an email address? Just jot it down right here." My hand shook as I wrote.

As I was jotting, another Allison -- Allison E. -- got my attention. "HEY WG!!! You look GREAT!" Huh? Another cheerleader has struck me with a compliment. "Thanks, so do you darlin'!" Darlin'? DARLIN'?! *Shrug* What the hell. The more nervous I get, the more I talk. And the more I talk, the more of a hick I become. Before the night is over, I will have called at least half a dozen people sweetie, doll, honey, or the aforementioned darlin'. Well, at least no one can accuse me of being cold.

We made our way to the mini cash bar, briskly. MF ordered. I had a blissfully dreadful glass of chardonnay and scoped the ballroom for someone to talk to. As my eyes scanned the crowd, a feeling much like existing in a parallel dimension swept over me. Everyone looked the same... but different. I recognized every single face and, much to my surprise, got almost sentimental. I wanted to go up to everyone and hug them. I had after all, shared nearly all my lives with these people and now, here we were standing in a room together... after all these years. All grown up. All smiling and welcoming each other with recognition and... love.

Classmates married each other in surprising combinations. Party girls had transformed into sweet stay-at-home moms. Cheerleaders had developed spare tires after giving birth and, by the looks of it, didn't care. All the men had put on weight and there were more than a few clean shaven heads, pattern-baldness scrub sneaking from beneath their scalps. No one had done anything spectacularly off the charts. They were just married folks with regular kids, regular jobs, regular lives. And they were nice.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy introducing myself to people who didn't recognize me. I did rather get a kick out of watching their mouths hang open. (That's why later, I had a heavenly piece of peanut butter pie.) MF, not used to the fare of my hometown, nearly skipped dinner altogether, opting instead for a small piece of the chicken, which had been fried and then slathered with bland gravy. What he lacked in sustenance, he made up for in snark. His premeditated salvos of sarcasm never fail to make me explode with laughter -- always with a mouthful of food.

And he was right. The food was crap. The music was crap. The location was... okay. The company (if I hadn't seen them in so long) was not top notch. But when I was voted, "Most Changed Girl" along with two other girls, it was worth it.

We left early, after dessert and the class reunion pictures had been taken. I hugged a few people and wished them well. Later, as I lay in bed, the events of the evening folded over and over in my mind. I had really wanted to hate them. I had really wanted to get even. I had really wanted them to be wrong. But now, it doesn't matter. Time has done me justice -- has done us all justice. And we are all the richer for it.