Eric and I really blew our first dance at the reception.
We were all set to foxtrot and then the music skipped, my fragile confidence was shattered and the rest of the song was a mixed battle—first, the (futile) fight to recover and second, the internal battle, convincing myself not to bolt off the dance floor right then and there, sobbing.
The dance with my dad—right after—was equally humiliating.
I slunk back to the head table, mortified and unable to rally under my mom’s well-intentioned assurances that it wasn’t that big of a deal (lie), no one noticed (lie) and people weren’t laughing (lie).
Kim finally got me out of the mire when she tilted her head, as if something had just come to her, grinned a bit and said frankly that she couldn’t imagine our first dance as our first dance without the music skipping and things going horribly wrong. It just wouldn’t be fitting.
Something about that rung true.
And it’s that same sentiment that’s got me frolicking through the minefield that has been our honeymoon week.
We’ve honeymooned at such vacation hot-spots as Walmart and Target, and enjoyed the fine cuisine from the HyVee buffet, Quizno’s and McDonalds. Tuesday I got sick at work and finally got into the emergency room Thursday, where I was poked and prodded and scanned until the docs diagnosed me with my original suspicious—kidney stones. Lots of them. In both kidneys. Happy honeymoon.
Whereas I spent the night on the couch the previous night, Eric landed there Thursday, after pasta day at LP got the best of him. “In sickness and in health” was really put to the test. Friday was all about surviving and laundry, which we did at my parents place before staying up late packing for today’s flight to Vegas, for a weeklong celebration of my mother-in-law’s birthday.
Hilarious, right?
But Kimmie was right—it wouldn’t be fitting any other way.
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