Two days ago, we attended our niece’s wedding in Virginia. The ceremony and reception were held at a beautiful and exclusive resort on the banks of the James River. I’m pretty sure they wanted to turn us away at the gate, because our Cadillac wasn’t fancy enough.
The bride and the guests were gorgeous, decked out in clothes so fabulous that the sunset paled in comparison. Following the ceremony, the wedding party had photographs taken while we were treated to scrumptious hors d’oeuvres in truly lovely surroundings.
After finding out I have a love for something called “mushroom cigars” and even more love for something called an “open bar”, it was time for the reception.
As we left the riverbank and stepped inside to the five-course, sit-down dinner, I grabbed my son’s hand and told my daughter to follow behind.
We entered on the far end of the hall and zig-zagged through the crowd, looking for the table number that matched our place card. I nodded politely and said, “Excuse me”, numerous times as the three of us wiggled around the room.
Little did I know that I should have been excusing my son’s behavior, not mine, because when we arrived at our table my daughter said, “Mom! Your son smacked the butt of every person we passed by!”