After last week’s dental implant surgery I made an appearance in a friend’s wedding as a swollen-faced, matron of honor. Unable to smile, I made it through the festivities with the help of Percocet. At the reception, I was practically assaulted by my husband on the dance floor. Gyrating, grinding, doing the Hammer shuffle, and jiggling his belly to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard,” Brantley really outdid himself. My face said it all. Yep, he’s going home with me tonight.
Later that evening, someone made reference to our readily approaching seven year itch. While scratching his neck Brantley remarked, “feels more like a rash to me.” Lovely.
For his final hoorah I overheard him tell the father of the groom, “I told him not to do it (get married).” I decided then that it was time to go (read: re-medicate). And with that, we said our goodbyes and left before he had a chance to do the electric slide.
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