My
sister, my first role model, my very best friend married her favorite person on
a below freezing day under the twinkly lights of Iowa. It was an honor standing
right beside her through it all (ensue a wave of tears).
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Eight
months of planning.
Tick. It starts off small with links to venues and dates and all the
exciting possibilities. Stretches of time go dark, only to be matched with an
influx of pictures and questions within one hour to make up for lost time.
Extended (most welcome) phone calls are scheduled to strategize, talk out
details for the big day.
Tock. Before you know it, it’s already here. You’re on a plane headed
home with too much luggage (only over-packers check bags), anticipating the
interference you’ll have to make so the bride-to-be isn’t (as) stressed.
Tick. There’s barely any time to focus on the holiday (just a peek:
Christmas Eve Mass celebrated in the church cry room) and you collectively plow
straight through Christmas with a broken to-do list each day; the box
organizing, decoration attending, dress fixing, brain racking for anything else
we’d possibly need on hand.
Tock. The wedding weekend arrives whether you’re ready or not (even if
you’re literally red in the face). After three and a half hours in freezing
rain, you’re flocked with hugs from relatives who ask every twenty minutes if
they can help in any way (you come up with clever ways to put them to use).
Nails are painted, ceremony rehearsal and dinner zips by and you’re introduced
to people you’ll probably never see again.
Tick. Barely getting your immediate family out the door for one last
celebratory drink as the OG Fitzpatrick gang, you try not to notice how
distracted the five of you seem. You stay up late (but not too late) going over
the next day’s schedule with the bridal party drinking wine and reminding
yourself to savor this last very important night with your older sister.
Tock. Time doesn’t stop. Before you know it another bridesmaid (hi
Becca) crawls into the king-sized bed you’re sharing with the beautiful
blushing bride, waking you for the day dawning on the rest of her life.
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The
Fitzpatrick’s and Nerdig’s apparently know how to throw a party. It was perfect
(not just saying this cause I helped with the planning)! Ask anyone who was
there, everything from the beautiful church melodies (plug for Paige Hargrove
Music) to the reception food and favors (#nobodysgettincoldfeet), no one wanted
the evening to end.
My heart soared for the goodness you could see brilliantly twirling around curled heads all the way to cozy socked toes. I wanted to sob for joy (and I did) with how the room reeked with sloppy (the alcohol helped with that), unapologetic love.
Watching
my sister and (now) brother-in-law literally radiate pure bliss and deep
affection with my closest family and friends left me with a bubbling exuberant
feeling of sheer happiness.
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As much
joy that surrounded this day, I’ve somehow found it difficult to write about.
Mostly because I don’t think I’m done processing the night’s stolen moments and
shared knowing looks with people who’ve been with me before I could properly
form sentences, but also understanding what it all means (everything is a
growing experience in your 20’s).
Going to
a wedding, the event you celebrate love, by yourself doesn’t exactly sound
appealing. In fact, it’s bitterly painful.
For so
long my sister was my person. The one I knew I was supposed to stand next to in
a crowded room and whisper using a super secret language. And when she wasn’t
there, my brother chivalrously (and a little begrudgingly) stepped in. But now
that they’re both wonderfully and confidently paired off, it leaves a little
lump in my throat.
I look
around and I’m alone. On my own. Solo. Table for one. Just me.
I
mentally prepared myself for this. Oh yes. I was ready to beg for dances with
my grandpa, dad and even some uncles enough times to fall just above the line
of pathetic. My defense was up, ready to combat questions about me being the
next one on the altar or making moves to find my own guy. I was ready.
Little
did I know what was ahead: My childhood bestie and her fiance would beam a
thumbs up across the room every chance they got, the “boys” (aka my
cousin-brothers) and sweet Judy would have me giggling with their animated
story-telling and goofy (but classy) dance moves, the shots I’d take with my
cousins were waiting for me behind the bar, the conversations I’d share with
those who traveled really far would rekindle old friendships, my feet would
kick and arms would fly all night long, Jon would serenade Meg with a surprise
song, and the sweet jingling of bells would roll throughout the hall as we sent
off the new couple into the night.
In utter
disbelief, I shook my head and took a sip of my beer. I wasn’t in this life
alone.
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Standing
on the edge of the dance floor with Meg’s coat and boots in hand, I diligently
waited for the DJ to finish the (second) encore of the night (not to toot my
own horn but even with three too many drinks in me, I rocked the role as MOH).
My dad
casually leaning against the door frame taking in the energy radiating from all
the people still busting moves caught my eye and opened his arm, welcoming me
easily as I slid into a tight embrace.
“I think
Megan married a good man,” he said whisper-yelling into my ear.
“Me too.
I really like Jon,” I said with a smile.
“You
HATED him,” he said with sarcastic emphasis and the usual twinkle in his eye
(the one he gets when he knows he’s right).
I laughed
with a shrug, “He’s grown on me.”
“I think
you were just afraid of losing Megan.”
Surprised
at his bluntness and hearing this truth spoken aloud by someone else for the
first time, tears stung my eyes. “Yeah, I was.”
He pulled
me in for a hug and kiss atop my head before letting it slip, “I love you,
kid.”
Crying
onto my dad’s shoulder surrounded by the noise, laughter and anticipation for
the future of the newlyweds, I felt so sure that whatever happened in the new
year ahead, I’d be just fine.
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