I was at a 50th Anniversary this weekend, celebrating the marriage of two incredibly special and kind people who are the parents of a very good friend of mine. It was great fun, playing games all afternoon then stuffing ourselves with ham and freshly baked buns and salad-to-end-all-salad. I was so tired and so full at the end of it that I hardly made it home and when I did, I slumped on the couch for 45 minutes waiting for enough energy to get myself upstairs to the bed. Oh, how I adore days like these. I love the dopey laziness of it, the sick full feeling I get from eating far too many little macaroni squishies, the pure and total exhaustion from a full day out in the sun running and playing and laughing and enjoying life.
But I digress. The story is this:
At the beginning of the reception, all the guests were asked to fill out a sticker which would then be ‘stuck’ to their jackets, sweaters, jeans, belts, etc. They were to print their name and the number of years they’ve been married or in a committed relationship. Well. Seeing as I am not married nor am I in a committed relationship, I simply wrote my first name in big capital letters and stuck it to the front of my sweater. It fell off. I stuck it on again. It fell off again. I was starting to wonder if this was some sort of sick, twisted game God was playing on me when out of the blue someone said “why don’t you put ‘single'” on your sticker? Hmmn. I am at an anniversary with a family I am not blood-related to. That’s not a bad idea, batman.
So I wrote “single… & looking”. Such a bad idea, people.
I stuck the thing to my sweater. Again, it fell off. By this time, it was a running joke. Haha. Stick it on her sweater, it’ll fall off – yeah, really, it’s hilarious. So, without having to say but saying it anyways, there was quite the circle of fans around me by the time I managed to stick the silly sticker to the side of my… plastic picnic cup. Yes, I carried around a plastic picnic cup with my drink of choice. Come outta that tangent! I stuck it to the cup. Maybe 20 people gathered around to watch me do this. For the next two hours, a short, pimpled, 18 year old BOY was stuck to my hip like glue. He was so desperately trying to amuse and impress me I almost wanted to throw up all over the place. I tried to make reference to my age at least half a dozen times, but he didn’t seem to care. At the end of this two hour period, I had reached my limit of tolerating teenage boys and ran over to a great big tree and hid under its branches for about half an hour. That worked.
That’s also when I got the idea that our slo-pitch team should dress in camoflage next season.