Let me sail, let me sail, let the Orinoco flow.

Sometimes when you’re really not in the mood to witness a man and a woman asking God’s blessing upon their holy union, you find yourself sitting in a pew in a chesty black dress holding a wedding program and praying for time to pass quickly. Last Saturday afternoon, Jeff and I attended a wedding. And because I was feeling sort of sad and Jeff was feeling punchy, we turned down the class and turned up the smart assidity.

Jeff (pointing to the line in the program that said Communion): So, I suppose *that’s* going to happen.

Me: In these shoes? I don’t think so.

Officiant (who I suspect had been drinking a wee bit): I hope we can all get together to celebrate the bride and groom’s fiftieth anniversary on October 30th, 2059.

Jeff: I thought this was August 30th. 2008. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.

Me: It’s just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right. Actually, he’s talking about their 51st and 2 Months anniversary. I think that’s a big celebratory wedding anniversary day for the Catholics. They call it The Big 51-2. I’ll Google it when we get home.

Officiant: I’d like to read to you from 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13.

Jeff: I’m going to pretend I’ve never heard this before.

Me: First Corwhathians?! Wait. What is that smell? Could it be an overdone Bible verse?

(Sometimes Jeff and I are real jerks. You heard it here first, folks!)

Officiant: This time around, I’m going to shake it up a bit.

Jeff: ???
Me: ?!?!

Okay. He then inserted the bride and groom names into the verses.
And when he was done, I mentally inserted OUR names into the verses.
And it went a little something like this:

Angela is patient, Jeff is kind. (Well, one out of two isn’t bad, right? Jeff really is sort of kind. You should meet him someday.)

Angela is not jealous, Jeff is not pompous, Angela is not inflated. (Okay. Yeah. Jeff is not pompous. Also, stop looking at my butt.)

Jeff is not rude, Angela does not seek her own interests, Jeff is not quick-tempered, Angela does not brood over injury. (I don’t brood over actual injury, but I *DO* tend to overreact to things I don’t understand. Like the cyst thing above my right ear. In my mind, my swollen brain has busted through a crack in my skull and is planning some sort of gushing escape with the permission of my semicircular canals.)

Jeff does not rejoice over wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. (Gheez. I really *did* score a gem.)

Angela bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. (I suck.)

And because we weren’t good citizens during the wedding ceremony (Don’t worry. No one heard our utterances. We are not unlike mice! Muffled mice!), the DJ at the reception paid us back by playing nothing but Enya.

Me: When I was in college, I once invited a boy over so we could make out to Enya. When that got old, we made out to The Lawnmower Man.

Jeff: I’m just hoping we’re able to Cabbage Patch to an extended mix of Brahms’ Lullaby before the night is over.
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