And now we reach the point in the wedding where the chapel-now-dining hall has become a discothèque. It was here in this country where I first discovered that I was bored out of my skull by this particular social act. I look at my phone– it’s only 11pm, much to my chagrin. I am here with my fantastic friends, the groom and groom, until the bitter end because they hold the keys to their front door located some 20 minutes away. And it’s also their damn party and I appreciate the invitation. Also, I really love these guys. So I chill in peace. It’ll be awhile before their evening of beautiful memory is sealed in the annals of this little town.
Ten minutes pass. I’ve just been dragged out onto the dance floor by order of one of the grooms. I am met by his hands, which I have no choice but to take. His tuxedo is nearly shed as I’m now barely dancing with him and staring at his bare chest. This seems pretty unremarkable considering I spent the first five hours of the day hanging out in his house with his now-husband sporting only his boxer briefs. I’ll forget this in the morning but the dance floor song is currently Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.” All I can think is, “yeah neither do mine and I’m outta here in 10 seconds.”
In exactly 52 minutes I will turn 39 years old, and at this stage in the game I no longer feel bad that I wish I had packed a crossword puzzle in my purse.
The crowd on the dance floor slowly thins, and even The Happy Couple, they find themselves back at their tables (shirts rebuttoned). I remember that the wedding cake hasn’t even made an appearance yet. The music is getting louder; as an avoidance tactic against further beckoning I have 80% decided that I’ll head outside for une clope rather than wave off the grooms from under the strobe light. I think that there are some people who sit like a stick in the mud and secretly want to be beckoned onto the dance floor. I am not one of those people.
Oh this is ladies night and the feeling’s right. The DJ is moving back in time and the air mattresses are being dragged out for the children right by our table. The adults party on. About four hours earlier I was standing outside, corralled with the limited supply of singles in order to catch bouttoniers thrown by the grooms. One is inbound and as it comes into my line of fire; I deliberately kept my arms at my sides because fuck giving single people unrealistic expectations. The cute, gay guy standing next to me–who is separated from his boyfriend–catches the flower and I wish him sincere congratulations.
Back at the dinner table I’m punching some phrases into my phone’s Note app. “Ees eet your loveur?” I am interrupted by Francis, the jovial wedding guest seated at my left. You can tell when French people are drunk because they start busting out their very decent English. I know I’ve long since dépassed the socially accepted norm for messing with my phone but my verbal bank account is drained and so is the rosé at our table. And then groom #2 comes by with a cold bottle of champagne. Ever the consummate host, this one. Groom #1 really did well for himself. I’m so happy for the both of them.
Figure-toi that Francis turns out to be a certified instructor of many sports. He suggests I come back to Grenoble in the winter to ski with him and his wife. I tell him that je ne skie plus and he responds by advising that I must do wall squats while brushing my teeth in order to prepare mes hanches. Two minutes to start and then I should build. I find this hilarious on so many levels but just nod and sip more champagne.
Time check. It’s 1:35. Dancing has resumed and the chapel alter area is the center dance stage. Put your hands up in the air. We have more shirtless Frenchmen ooncing their bodies in the center of a wedding circle. “Tu ne danse pas?” Non.
Je ne danse pas. I just sit here and space out because my style is to roll out à l’irlandaise and if I did that here I’d end up somewhere lost in these mountains. Je reste ici. I have no solid preplanned exit strategy. C’est pas grave.
2:49am: I Will Survive. I’ve embraced the holdouts who occupy the dancefloor and are currently digging this particular tune. Those revelers do not include the grooms. Those two are seated and look tired, deservedly. I’m giving farewell kisses to many a guest, wishing them à toute à l’heure since there’s a brunch that will be kicking off in a few hours. It will include a pig roasting on a spit. I broke my damn near vegan diet for this trip, and after last night’s dinner à l’asiatique including boiled, nearly fully-formed poussins, I’m ready to go screaming back to that lifestyle. Bring on brunch. I will survive.
This is my 39.