A Wedding In Nowhere's Middle: Part 1
On a hill, in a church, surrounded by the green showiness of nature's splendor, standing next to one of my oldest friends as he married the love of his life, I was struck by an emotion so strong that, even now, I can still feel it lingering about; the last guest at the party too wrapped up in the onion dip to notice that the hosts have already put on their pajamas and are calling the police.
The emotion: Pain. It's source: My feet.
The shoes that you're given with your rental tux are made out of a specially-molded, soulless black hate that gives one the sensation that their feet are being interrorgated for information by the Khemer Rouge. But they're sneaky... you don't notice it right away. You're busy, you're getting your picture taken, you're doing a half-assed job of decorating the groom's car; you're mind is everywhere but on the ever-darkening situation below your ankles. Then, you're at the altar, standing in a line of men with you labeled the Best. Your standing still. The minister is speaking and everyone is smiling. Then, with the muffled horror of a drowning victim, you realize that your feet, who've always been so kind to you, are now suddenly full of nails and broken glass and wrapped in barbwire and also on fire. You shift a little, trying to ease your weight off and on of each foot in an alternating fashion, but you're currently standing in front of 80+ people who'll notice if you start doing a modified version of The Frug, not to mention the buzzard-like, lurking photographers. The anguish that could, at any moment, wash over your face would be so intense it'd win them a Pulitzer and don't think they don't know that. So you work your face into a rictus that at least somewhat resembles a smile and you pretend the tears in your eyes are because you're just so moved by the proceedings and not because you're fairly certain you've clicked your heels together in a jaunty fashion for the last time (not that you did that anyway, ever, but now you can never start).
So... yeah, my feet hurt. Oh, and a bunch of other stuff happened at the wedding, including one of the Groomsmen nearly getting arrested mere hours before the ceremony. More soon, my lovlies.
The emotion: Pain. It's source: My feet.
The shoes that you're given with your rental tux are made out of a specially-molded, soulless black hate that gives one the sensation that their feet are being interrorgated for information by the Khemer Rouge. But they're sneaky... you don't notice it right away. You're busy, you're getting your picture taken, you're doing a half-assed job of decorating the groom's car; you're mind is everywhere but on the ever-darkening situation below your ankles. Then, you're at the altar, standing in a line of men with you labeled the Best. Your standing still. The minister is speaking and everyone is smiling. Then, with the muffled horror of a drowning victim, you realize that your feet, who've always been so kind to you, are now suddenly full of nails and broken glass and wrapped in barbwire and also on fire. You shift a little, trying to ease your weight off and on of each foot in an alternating fashion, but you're currently standing in front of 80+ people who'll notice if you start doing a modified version of The Frug, not to mention the buzzard-like, lurking photographers. The anguish that could, at any moment, wash over your face would be so intense it'd win them a Pulitzer and don't think they don't know that. So you work your face into a rictus that at least somewhat resembles a smile and you pretend the tears in your eyes are because you're just so moved by the proceedings and not because you're fairly certain you've clicked your heels together in a jaunty fashion for the last time (not that you did that anyway, ever, but now you can never start).
So... yeah, my feet hurt. Oh, and a bunch of other stuff happened at the wedding, including one of the Groomsmen nearly getting arrested mere hours before the ceremony. More soon, my lovlies.
posted by Clinton at 6:35 PM
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