Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

Mission Impossible

with 4 comments

Mission: attend Ryan & Amber’s wedding. How hard can it be?

Invitation indicates a 5:15pm ceremony start time, but I speak fluent Wedding, so I know there’s a 20 to 40-minute window for arrival time. I plan accordingly.

At 1:30pm, I tell the Esq I should get ready.

At 2:00pm, I tell the Esq he should get ready.

At 2:30pm, I say – in my Mom Voice – “No, really, we need to get ready.” With three hours and counting, the fun begins!

The Esq takes a shower while I flat-iron half of my head. I’d planned on doing the whole thing, but got lazy halfway through; I wish they’d sold me arm steroids as a companion piece to my already-overpriced flat iron. I decide a side bun is ideal for the situation, and pull my hair back – half of it stick-straight, half of it curly – deciding to finish it after I dress.

It’s 3:10pm.

Once the Esq is out of the shower, I’m filled with ideas of what to wear. Unfortunately, I’m thinking back to a time when I had clothes that matched my body type.

For an hour, we both raid my Closet of Perpetual Doom and come up with very little. I find a black Donna Reed-type dress that’s wraparound and adorable, but know I’ll look like a fat gothic cupcake so I try for something else. I’m desperately yelling out clothes that might fit or will look even halfway-decent; at the same time, I’m slathering on makeup – something I haven’t done in four months – at a 90-degree angle, thanks to the position of my closet mirror and a precariously-perched booty. My abs, long since forgotten, are screaming in agony.

It’s 4:15pm.

I try on one dress, two dresses, three… none fit. Or rather, none fit my body, but I’m sure they would’ve looked lovely on you. Angry panic, angry tears. I am momentarily pissed off at the Esq for having the type of trim body that dutifully processes complex carbohydrates and will never gain water weight. I forge ahead.

Attitude check: screamy, frustrated, getting fatigued.

I suddenly realize what dress I want – it’s black, and “somewhere.” The Esq digs through the entire closet for the third time while I hobble to the bathroom, determined to do my makeup as God intended: upright, and with poor lighting.

The bathroom is too steamy, so I head back to the living room mirror. I scrutinize myself. I didn’t authorize this weight gain, but someone did, and heads are gonna roll. But who was behind this nefarious plot? The Russians? The Chinese Mob? The Esq’s hot ex-girlfriend? He approaches me, wary. “All I could find was this dress, but…”

It’s 4:40pm.

He holds out a limp piece of black fabric. YES! It’s the EXACT DRESS I wanted – or rather, after trying on everything I own, it was really the only dress left. I put it on, holding my breath. No inappropriate cleavage, a minimum of rolls, and it’s not impeded by my heavy walking boot. Perfection.

I finish my hair quick, take a cursory glance at the Esq in a dark suit – swoon! – and find my one black clutch inside a bigger bag, inside a plastic bin, underneath other boxes, at the back of my closet. When something is meant to be found, it’s found.

Of course I start my period. Of course I do.

The Esq and I find ourselves uncontrollably sweating; the temperature outside goes way up, meaning our hot-box of an apartment puts on an extra twenty pounds of humidity, and we melt into the hardwood floors. I’ve lost the one heel I can actually wear – a maize-colored retro wedge from Nordstrom – which the Esq finds, only after Army-crawling under our bed. I’m dripping with sweat, and the flat-ironed half of my head is starting to frizz.

It’s 5:00pm.

I say, “We have to go! It’s time!” which makes me feel like we’re having a baby, one heel and all. We go outside – Cory takes our picture – and then head to Capitol Hill. Once there, I direct the Esq to the wrong building in the right area. He parks, we circle said building, and I don’t have the invitation.

“Fuck, I thought this was it!” is the only thing I can say, while frantically trying to get online so I can find the location. We’re standing in the hot sun, in black clothing, wandering around a huge building. I’m walking for the first time without crutches, so it’s difficult and cumbersome, and extremely painful; ‘wandering around’ isn’t on the list of things I can do/like doing.

Finally I find the address for the place, and we realize we’re two blocks off. We walk, which is normally no big deal. It’s agony on my heeled foot and my booted foot – plus the uneven hips on uneven concrete just makes it that much worse. Finally, we round the corner to Pravda Studios, and see the bride getting out of the limo. We pick up the pace, happy to be there just in time.

It’s 5:30pm.

We stay for two hours – such a beautiful wedding and reception! – and head back home, where we’re helping host an ill-timed barbecue. Exhaustion sets in. We hang with friends, go to bed, and die.

[The moral of the story is:  don’t tear your Achilles tendon and expect weddings to be easy to attend.]

FIN

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Written by sn0tteh

October 10, 2009 at 8:28 AM

4 Responses

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  1. As per usual this was a joy to read. You are so funny! I wish I could find a way to get you paid to just do this all of the time. Writing really is your calling.

    Michelle

    October 10, 2009 at 9:21 AM

  2. @Michelle You’re like a confidence-boosting talking doll – I need to buy 50 of you and stage you around my home!

    sn0tteh

    October 10, 2009 at 9:29 AM

  3. I LOVE IT! SO FUNNY. I’m so happy you went through all the effort, no joke. THANK YOU

    Amber

    October 11, 2009 at 12:16 PM

  4. @Amber We were just so happy to be included in your big day – and it was so fun once we got there!

    sn0tteh

    October 11, 2009 at 8:52 PM


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