Ireland 2017; Day 3

Day 3; March 25^th, 2017

I’m writing this from the future. In this future, it’s after the wedding and I’m going to die. This isn’t a hangover. It’s a trauma. It’s a medical concern. A catastrophe, really.  I feel all the miles of my veins and arteries and capillaries. This is how I end; I know it.

But Day 3 was lovely. Probably too much so. Definitely too much so. 

We were taken to the venue, a hotel overlooking the inlet and it was spectacular. 

And then there was Rob and Breege’s wedding, and it was as it should be.

 I’ve been to dozens of weddings at this point and I remain impressed. There are literally millions of them a year, if not hundreds of millions of them, and they’re still miracles.

My parents had each been married twice by my age.

The longest I’ve dated a girl has been two months.

Seven billion people. How on earth do you find the one you’re going to get along with and want to marry? It’s a miracle, I tell you.

The speeches were lovely and heartfelt and not overdone.

And then there was food.

And then there was dancing.

Obviously, by fact I’m going to die while typing this, there was drinking.

We were not shuttled home until past four in the morning. I can’t do this anymore, I told myself. It will kill me.

I was right. 

When we left, the father of the bride was still on the dance floor, crushing it.

And daylight savings time, Ireland version, hit us, so I get/got to lose an hour sleep and that’s not helping my dying either.

That was a perfect Irish wedding.

May I never see another.

May I live to see another.