Eight years ago. Lightheaded with excitement, sitting in a muggy car infused with the fumes of our fast food breakfast, my brand new fiancé (formerly smoldering boyfriend), and I danced in our seats (okay, I danced while he smoldered), and talked over top of each other like parrots in a zoo.
We were engaged.
Hot crunchy hash browns were jammed down throats in between the first snatches of real planning. As we wound the car home from Washington (where the proposal had stilled the wind on a light-dappled seaside boardwalk), the wedding party was the first speed bump. My soon-to-be husband had approximately 477 friends that deserved to stand beside him, in squeaky shoes and musty rented suits, while I had always been more Pee Wee Herman with my inner circle. (A loner, Dottie, a rebel.)
I had three very close girlfriends; we got high and watched reality TV weddings; we perfected the art of homemade nachos; we laughed until we squirted pee into our laps, then ran hobbling and laughing harder to the bathroom.
But I needed one more.
Our friend Nick had recently returned home from travelling with a fancy new souvenir – a girl from New Zealand named Sarah. (Hi Sarah! This is the intro to my story about you. I hope that’s okay. Also, tough tits if it’s not.)