I recently attended a wedding just north of Atlanta the Saturday before Mother’s Day.
The bride is a close friend and I was excited to get outta dodge for 36 hours to see her get hitched. I had plans of waking up early on Sunday to get the first flight back to Tampa so I could spend Mother’s Day with my family.
My Mother-in-Law, Leslie, has a house near the wedding venue and was my “date” for the event, as my husband was also out of town on a marketing trip for business. (I know many reading this are shocked, but I hit the MIL jackpot. She’s young, not annoying, and doesn’t tell me how to raise my kids. We good.)
As Leslie and I were getting ready for the wedding, I told her I was going to limit my alcohol intake to two glasses of wine the entire night.
Famous last words.
The wedding was truly spectacular. Gorgeous flowers. Beautiful scenery. Good company. A great song playlist. Delicious food.
The party was rocking and the wine was flowing.
I was over-served somewhere between Sweet Child O’ Mine and Summer of 69.
(I also need to add this was a Jewish wedding. Which is relevant because anyone who’s ever attended a Jewish wedding knows there ain’t no such thing as a bad Jewish wedding. The tribe knows how to throw down.)
I ended up passing out in my dress and a full face of make-up.
The latter, for me, is a cardinal sin.
I woke up in the morning feeling terrible and not knowing how I was going to muster up the strength to get to the airport, which is an hour drive from Leslie’s house.
I felt so horrible that I couldn’t eat or drink anything all morning.
Not even crackers.
In fetal position on Leslie’s bathroom floor. Sweating. Shivering. Whimpering. Dizzy. Bargaining with God.
How on earth am I going to make it through the car ride to the airport? How will I get on a plane and make it through the entire flight back to Tampa?
I wanted to die.
Through tears, I found the strength to get dressed, get myself and my suitcase down stairs, and into Leslie’s car.
Leslie subsequently told me she knew it was time for me to go home when she looked out on the dance floor and saw me whipping my ponytail around like a helicopter propeller.
At the airport, I looked like someone beat me up. Sweaty hair slicked back in a bun. Zero makeup. Red, swollen face.
When I arrived at my gate, I heard an attendant announce the flight would be full so “everyone get cozy.”
When I got on the plane, I bolted straight for the nearest window seat. Probably not the best choice given my situation, but I am terrified of flying and need to be able to see what’s happening outside.
I found a vacant seat near an older man wearing a Marines t-shirt. The middle seat was empty until “teen mom” came along (she couldn’t have been older than 19) with her 18-month old son, who remained on her lap the entire time. He kept touching my leg, kicking the seat in front of him, and screaming, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my beating head.
Midway through the flight, I started feeling sick.
I grabbed the bag that was inside the seat pocket in front of me, wedged myself between the back of the seat and the window, and threw up as quietly and classily as possible.
(And I will say, it was pretty darn quiet. Nobody turned around or gave me any strange looks and I couldn’t hear anyone talking about it.)
When I was finished, I sat back in my chair and awkwardly made eye contact with Teen Mom next to me.
She looked confused and disgusted. Like “is this really happening?”
So I said the first thing that came to mind.
And I’m not proud.
Sorry…. I’m pregnant and have morning sickness.
(Look, I know pregnancy is nothing to joke about and is absolutely a non-P.C. thing to say but, in my mind, lying about being pregnant was better than having this stranger think I was a 35 year-old irresponsible lush who can’t hold her alcohol and was trying to get back to Tampa to be with her kids for Mother’s Day.)
Teen Mom looked at me with sympathetic eyes, likely because she remembered feeling sick when she was pregnant with the tyke on her lap.
She then glanced at my stomach and said:
Awwww…. I can see your baby belly!
I was mortified.
No honey, I thought, what you’re seeing is a combination of last night’s beef tenderloin, brussels sprouts, and challah bread.
I deserved the comment. And it was hilarious. And proof there’s a God and He’s got a sense of humor.
I had it coming.
I didn’t feel sick again the rest of the way home.
My flight arrived back in Tampa at noon and I spent the rest of the day with my husband and kids at our neighborhood pool.
I couldn’t eat any food until 3 p.m.
Then I got to thinking. At my age and life circumstances, nothing is worth a hangover. Nothing. Sure, the wedding was a blast, but I should really have cooled it after the second glass of wine.
The only real way to completely prevent a hangover is to not drink a dang thing.
Mazel Tov and Cheers to the happy couple. I’ll never forget their wedding or the crazy story that came from it.
And I never want to see a glass of red wine ever again.