Sunday, May 29, 2005

The Weekend

It's been an interesting few days.

Thursday afternoon I drove down to Ft. Collins, a white-knuckled hour on US 287. It would be a pretty drive except that it’s one of the most dangerous highways in America, clogged with Wyoming rednecks in pickups and Colorado yuppies in sports cars. That’s a volatile mixture in any environment; on a curvy two lane road it’s just plain scary. I made it, though, and once in Ft. Collins I had lunch with an old high school friend who now lives near Boulder. He’s been keeping my Telecaster and banjo for a year – ever since he helped me unload the U-Haul when I moved to Laramie – and I’ve been getting the itch to play bluegrass and electric country again.

Once safely back in Laramie after lunch, I went to another friend’s bachelor party. He’s a very smart and funny guy but pretty hardcore Christian, so there was neither nudity (well, no female nudity anyway – more on that in a minute) nor booze. After grilling burgers, we banished him to the basement while we compiled a list of things he had to do to earn a total of $100. It was basically a scavenger hunt, but mean. My contribution was: go to Albertson’s and buy a cucumber and a jar of KY jelly, and we need them both on the same receipt as proof.

The first event involved going to Wal*Mart and asking for a price check on “condoms, extra small.” Then he went to the ladies underwear and asked a clerk which pair she liked better. By this point, a group of ten guys laughing hysterically had attracted some management attention, so we left.

On to downtown Laramie, where the groom-to-be had to change into a three-piece denim jumpsuit worn by one of the groomsmen’s dads when he was in a band in the seventies. The groom is a tall and skinny guy, and he looked not unlike John Travolta a la “Saturday Night Fever.” We dragged him past three very hard eyed individuals on our way into the Buckhorn.

A note here about the Buckhorn. It’s a bar. It’s a good bar; any bar with an honest-to-God bullet hole in the mirror has to be. “The Buck” is pretty much a Laramie staple and on most nights the crowd is a fairly accurate cross-section of the population: you’ll see cowboys, bikers, tourists, professors, sorority chicks, hippies, and townies standing shoulder to shoulder.

Thursday night, though, when the groom-to-be was required to sing “My Wild Irish Rose” to the entire bar, it was mostly bikers. Mean, worn out bikers. The bartender clearly got a kick out of it, but that was about it. His performance was fine; the reception was icy. We left. Quickly.

We made a group decision that he had to repeat that performance, but somewhere it would be appreciated. We walked over to Coal Creek coffeehouse: a much better reception.

To K-Mart, where he had to buy the largest panties and bra he could find, since he’d be putting them on the Ben Franklin statue on campus. Turns out that even a 42DDD wouldn’t fit on ol’ Ben.

So then we made the groom-to-be change into Speedos (he’s a swimmer), we scrawled something obscene on his back, and made him run across campus. That’s when the cops showed up.

Somehow he got out of a ticket, and after restoring Ben’s dignity we headed over to the groom’s apartment to watch a movie. First, though, we tackled him and scrawled more obscene things on his chest in permanent marker.

That was Thursday.

Friday morning I worked the lobby desk from 7 to 11am, had four hours off, and then worked again from 3 to 11pm.

Saturday was the wedding and also my 33rd birthday. The wedding was gorgeous, an outdoor affair at a state park between Laramie and Cheyenne. Those kinds of things always make me think about what I want my wedding to be like (mostly it’ll be up to my bride – but I think less money spent on decorations and more on booze and entertainment is probably the way to go).

The thing is, though, I’m 33, and the biological clock is starting to tick a wee louder. Yeah, I want to be a dad, and yeah, I know I need to wait until I’m out of college and have a steady income. But for all of yesterday’s fun and fellowship, it underscored for me how worried I am about being single for the rest of my life. Over the past few years, I’ve become especially attuned to looking at that marriage-able quality in girlfriends and even friends for whom I’ve pined but haven’t dated. And I gotta wonder: who on earth is going to marry me? She’ll have to be a very strong, smart, and uniquely patient woman. But who?

Eah. For all the poetics, another part of me is certain it will happen at some point. I just want it to be sooner rather than later; I don’t want to be forty when I get married – I want to roughhouse with my kids (whether with boys or girls, but my kids’ gender expectations are another story), and I want my parents to see their grandkids get married. More than any of that, though, I want my marriage to work and to last. So maybe my pickiness is an issue, or maybe I really haven’t met the right person yet. Who knows?

Okay, this is getting out of hand. I’ve been at the desk since 3am (I’m working 3am to 11am today) and I’m simultaneously bleary and keyed up, like a toddler hopped up on M&Ms past their bedtime. There’s some mail leftover from yesterday’s shift, so maybe I’ll do that for a while.

2 Comments:

Blogger Leta said...

Happy 33rd!! Don't forget that on September 28th, you get to celebrate because you'll be 33 1/3...

Hope it's a great year.

8:29 AM  
Blogger Tamara said...

Happy Birthday!

6:48 PM  

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