Six days ago my cousin and her fiancé tied the knot at a ski lodge in northern Michigan. Despite the vicious travel conditions, the event was splendid. The pastor was funny, the guests were on time and well dressed, the slopes were covered in a fresh blanket of powder and, instead of shouting profanities and hurling their Burtons at the wedding party as they halted the ski lift for half an hour to take photographs, the skiers and snowboarders waited patiently (and even applauded) as the bride and groom made their way up the hill.
Like I said, splendid.
I'm aware that, as far as the bride and groom are concerned, the aforementioned details are probably how they’ll remember their nuptials. However, I'll remember (most of) my cousin's big wedding weekend with a smirk of fondness for a different reason—the reception.
Now, I've enjoyed myself at no small number of wedding receptions. Heck, I've been to like six this year. But to simply say I had a good time at this one would be a flagrant understatement. Suffice it to say, I owned. I enjoyed myself with the intensity of the sun exploding. Or a weekend in Vegas. Or seeing "The Dark Knight" for the first time. And because I was so busy thieving as much fun from the occasion as I possibly could, my memory didn't capture all of the evening. Luckily, people's cameras did.
This week, as the Facebook tags mounted and the pounding in my head dulled, Saturday evening became less hazy and I began to remember why I threw socially acceptable human behavior to the wind and partied like a Hilton.
Redressing. (That's me in the red sweater vest.)
And yes, a bit more of the freaking.
If there were one photo that could encompass the sum of all the great parts of the evening, it would look something like this.