I attended a wedding yesterday. Workout Barbie wore the most beautiful strapless, beaded wedding gown. Her dark brown hair had been styled into perfect, long curls. She was gorgeous.

I almost didn’t make it.

I’d been at Caden-7yr’s baseball game, where they were taking on the only undefeated team. Caden-7yr has started hitting and getting on base, did I tell you? How exciting! And their little team was more than exceeding expectations. I thought the win was hard-earned, and theirs. But it was painfully close and they lost by 1.

Afterwards, I ran home and tried to wipe off  the layers of grime. It had been a baseball game in a dirtstorm – as they so often are here – but there wasn’t time to really address the issue with a long bath.

Instead, I stood in the closet and tried on 4 dresses in record time, fixed the tangled, windblown hair, spritzed perfume to mask my Dirt Smell, and jumped back in the car.

The wedding was 2 hours away. I drove. Max sang. (This is  a common arrangement we have.) The blowing dirt reduced visibility to nothing and slowed me considerably.

Have I told you I can get lost going anywhere? I can. I do.

I asked OnStar for help. They pretended they haven’t known me and helped me for the last 6 years at least and only promised to help me after I rattled off a credit card number. “Ma’am? Are you driving? We don’t want you to be distracted by getting this out of your purse.”

“That’s nice, really, but I’m a dedicated online shopper, and I can do this without reaching for my purse or taking my eyes off the road, so let’s go, I’m in a hurry and it’s a Visa.”  They promised to come back on the line and help me, but instead they hung up on me. And thank you for calling, OnStar.

I’d tried GPS. I’d tried the iPhone map thingy. And with 20 minutes to go before the ceremony started, I called Mike and begged him to help and he did.  He also said OnStar did not need a credit card and went on about the details of our account with them, and, well, really I wasn’t listening.

The photographer held the door for me, and I flew down the aisle about 2 minutes before the bride.

I cried.

Workout Barbie cried.

I wanted to get her a tissue because she didn’t have one. But I didn’t. Instead, I wished other people, closer, would get up and hand her one. But no one did.

I’d never met the groom, and I wondered if he really knows how lucky he is to get her. For some reason, I doubted it. Not because of anything to do with him.  After all, it had taken me a lot of years to realize how great a friend she really is… I hadn’t credited her with being as wonderful, sweet, caring, and loyal as she truly is… oh, I hoped he wasn’t guilty of that as well.  She deserves someone who really understands her, loves and likes her for who she really is, and will encourage/support/adore her. I sincerely hope that’s what she got yesterday, when she married him.

After the ceremony, I went back outside to get the gift and take it into the reception hall. The photographer stopped me and told me how lovely I had smelled as I’d come in, earlier.

I found this to be extremely interesting, since it seemed a weird thing to say, and I’d sprayed perfume to cover up a dirt + baseball smell. But I thanked her anyway. I was thrilled the parking lot was deserted because a strong gust of wind blew my dress straight up. It’s West Texas, and oh yeah, that happens. As I savored the gratitude I felt for this particular event having no witnesses, I wondered about my choice of undergarments. Pretty, but decidedly lacking in coverage for involuntary flashing incidents, was the conclusion I came up with. Really, if your dress is going to blow straight up, it would be better to be wearing ginormous granny panties, right? And now I know.

I walked into the reception hall and stood alone in a bright sunny spot, trying to decide who was related to whom, judging by noses, jawlines, and shoes. It was a beautiful room. The windows were fascinating – 15 enormously tall, Gothic style.

I turned to inspect the ones behind me and saw a perfect view of the parking lot, and my car.

Ugh.

I stayed long enough to talk with Workout Barbie before slipping out and driving home.

The dirt had stopped blowing, and the drive looked entirely different. I passed a hair salon with a handpainted sign reading: “Hairacy.”  On the other side of the street was a handpainted sign reading: “Eternity – It’s Hell Without Jesus.”

I wondered if they’re good neighbors. I decided they probably were.

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