part 3:The pint(s) the night before
A few pints, a few vows, a few good fellows—the night before my wedding.
My now-wife, then-fiancé.
They don’t tell you how short time is with that word. Fiancé is such a fun word to say. Fiancé.
Okay, I digress.
My fiancé and I traveled to one of the most magical places on Earth: Scotland.
The homeland.
Where you can hear the mountains sing, the oceans rocking, the locals talking in riddles.
We were getting married there. Portree, Scotland was our base, and our wedding was at the Fairy Glen.
Our crew came with us:
Her parents, Karolyn and Jerry
Her sisters, Breezy and Julia
Her friend Katrina (a different one)
My friends, Timm (aka Roommate) and Dan Hill
Plus their partners—both of whom, fun fact, ended up having families together after this trip
And Roommate’s mom
Roommate had recently lost his father, and his mom tagged along.
Having all these people around, and none of your own family?
It really… hurts.
I cried the night of my wedding.
As a man does when lubricated by the golden liquid created by the gods.
But at least I had Roommate’s mom.
At least I had a mom by myside.
We’re all sitting at a pub the night before the wedding, eating and enjoying the local delicacies: mussels, fish and chips, pints, pints, more pints, other food, pints, whisky... just having a good ol’ time.
Eventually, we follow tradition: boys go with boys, girls go with girls.
So now it’s me and my main boys—Dan and Roommate.
My bad boys.
These two have seen the best and worst of me. They are the best of my stories.
Oh, and Jerry.
Future father-in-law.
We didn’t really share any stories yet.
The only thing we currently shared was… his daughter.
We grab a pint and hit another local pub.
We get Jerry drunk.
We also get a very good buzz on ourselves.
I’m doing what I think I should be doing.
A lot of what I do is because I think this is how people act.
Or it’s me just having a little mania.
At this time, I’m doing what I think I’m supposed to do, something I always do…
Just trying to blend in with the crowd.
I’m asking questions:
“When did you know you’d be married?”
“What advice do you have?”
You know, the classic happy wife, happy life kind of stuff.
Except, I don’t buy it.
I believe in:
Happy wife, happy husband. Happy fam bam, thank you ma’am. Happy dog, happy cat, a happy Dr. Seuss book.
It’s not fair to have one person who doesn’t know how to communicate, so instead they just try to create a happy life for their counterpart.
“Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Whatever you say, dear.”
Dear future me: Please tell me I’m right in this.
That we both can be happy?
What a cursed little phrase—happy wife, happy life.
What about me?
I mean, she is my world and my life, so maybe there’s something there.
Also, I am a people pleaser.
Hello, ladies. ;)
During these drunken conversations I did gather little sound bites. Little treasures.
A few even made it into my vows.
But the real highlight of the night?
A Scottish woman with three kids at home joins us—just chatting in riddles, as they do in Scotland.
Talking in questions.
It’s truly an entertaining dialect, with the fun question inflection on the end.
We’re sharing our brotherhood with her, having laughs.
And Jerry…
He keeps leaning over and whispering,
“Be careful.”
Not like a broken record.
Every time, the inflection is different.
Like he’s truly warning me.
Like he’s seen this situation before.
Like he thinks I might actually cheat on his daughter tonight with this charming Scottish mother of three.
“Be careeeeeful,” he whispers.
Head bobbing.
Eyes glazed.
I would never cheat on my wife.
Not in front of her father.
Although…
I did accidentally cheat on my wife once—unbeknownst to me—in front of her.
At a gay bar in Chicago.
We have a lot of memories in gay bars.
It’s where we met.
It’s where she accidentally bought cocaine.
It’s where I ask the bartender if I have to wear a shirt.
The answer is always the same:
“Absolutely not.”
I lose my best shirts this way.
We were holding hands, each of us talking to different people.
Suddenly, some lovely, very nice lady to my right plants a big kiss on me.
I kiss back.
What’s a man to do?
My wife turns just as this happens.
This could’ve gone bad.
Now—men—this could’ve gone two ways.
I don’t remember any of this, by the way.
This was relayed to me the next day.
Apparently, I let the kiss happen, turned to my wife, and said:
“Help me.”
That’s when she said,
“It’s time to go home.”
To be fair, my wife knows I’m very polite.
I couldn’t just refuse a kiss.
That would’ve been rude.
Why ruin her night?
(Yes. She reminds me of this often.)
Back to Scotland.
The night winds down.
I send Jerry back to the den of girls.
My boys leave me.
But I’m not done.
Katrina (the friend) and her sister Breezy find me by the water.
We have what I like to call a rock toss.
Not a skip. Not a throw. Just a gentle toss of stones into the water.
It’s one of the favorite pastimes in Scotland, if you didn’t know.
We chat.
We laugh.
It’s peaceful.
The next day, I hear about Jerry dancing around the inn like a lunatic.
They filmed it.
It was lovely to see.
Now, I tell this part of the chapter for two reasons:
I received little sound bites that ended up in my vows.
And most importantly…
You probably forgot.
I had been poisoned.
No, seriously.
I HAVE BEEN POISONED.
And I didn’t even know it yet.
I wouldn’t know for another 36 hours.
Food poisoning is a very interesting thing...
And I wasn’t the only one.
Off to the wedding.
