Last night Slappy and I were invited to not one, but two weddings.  One being his childhood friend, one being my college friend.  In the end, childhood friend won out and we prepared ourselves for the black tie optional affair.  Okay, totally not true.  I grabbed the only two dresses that fit that category and went to twitter with pictures.  Really really bad pictures.

Twitter had a clear favorite, so I went to Target to get a wrap (the ceremony was in a synagogue and we didn’t know how conservative they’d be around bare shoulders) and walked out with a wrap…and a new dress…and a purse.  Yes, it’s a sickness.  We hurried up and got dressed and ready.

We arrived a little early and hung out.  Promptly at 7, when the invitation said it would begin, the doors open and people filed in…to cocktail hour.  Where cocktail hour was actually cocktail hour and forty-five minutes.  My husband then fell over and died of sheer happiness in his pile of (kosher) pigs in blankets and we mingled with people we knew, which was pretty much limited to Slappy’s family and a neighborhood friend of his who proceeded to flirt with him for much longer than appropriate.

At like 8:30, we got drinks.  I got a lemon drop, (where lemon drop is a euphemism for cup full of Absolut Vodka with a splash of lemon juice) and Slappy got a gin and tonic (with the same ratio of alcohol).  When we were ushered to our seats 20 minutes later we. were. plastered.

I mean seriously, seriously drunk.  Seriously drunk, in a synagogue, at our friend’s wedding.  Although, we were maybe half as inebriated as the best man, which was comforting.

As the ceremony went on, my buzz started to die and something else happened altogether.  I couldn’t feel or properly use my hands.

This has happened before and it has nothing to do with alcohol, but everything to do with my brain.  And so I spent the last 10 minutes of the ceremony freaking the hell out about my totally useless baseball mitt hands.  It was decidedly UNawesome.

We went into the reception, where I had to use every power I had not to drop my water 300 times and eat properly (forks and knives are hard to use when your hands are not entirely under your own control), but on the upside, my hands didn’t hurt from the 10 minutes of clapping during Hava Nagila.  So that’s a plus.

The reception was nice, though late.  We got served our dinner at 11 and dessert at 12:30.  We got home around 2 and crashed like a ton of bricks.  And it’s now been 12+ hours and my right hand has mostly normalized.  My left hand is fucked up.  It’s taken me like an hour to write this because half of the keys come out wrong or don’t get hit at all.

And I’m sure I could throw in something here about how I can deal with it and I’ve been through worse, but when my brain starts robbing me of not just random opportunities to be young and having fun, but ones we’ve RSVPed for, ones we’ve looked forward to for months, I feel like I have a legitimate claim to being pissed off.  And I am.

And this time I’m going to totally skip physical therapy and go right to retail therapy.  Because Old Navy’s having a sale and I just got paid.  And dude, my hand doesn’t work, I should at least get a shirt or two out of that.

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