Our Scottish (Mis)adventures: Take II
The wedding was on Sunday.
“What a beautiful day for a wedding,” a friend remarked. “It’s the nicest day, 68 degrees.”
Meanwhile, if you looked over at me, I had goosebumps running up and down my legs, I was trying to hold the chattering to a minimum. Despite my Russian roots, my body isn’t built for cold weather. My mom, on the other hand, will never pass up the chance to scoff at negative single digits as being cold. “Where I come from, negative thirties, now that was cold.”
Alright, Mom who wears six layers when it gets below forty. The lies are written across your red nose.
Everything was beautiful. The couple had written their vows, and it was so very them. We laughed, they cried, and to top off the night, we headed to a bonfire at a nearby beach. I think we passed out around three am, snoozed through seven alarms between us, and rushed out of bed at 8:30 to get on the road to hit the next town on our list.
Before we did all that, though, we slept in the morning of the wedding. After our late-night debacle, we figured we deserved that. Turns out the sleeping in late didn’t quite pan out for us the way I had hoped.
It’s 1:30 in the afternoon. We had just gotten out of bed. I was going to wash the ugly out of my hair while my husband got ready.
Turned out he forgot his slacks back home. Funny thing, that forgetting. Before we left the apartment that Friday morning, I asked him if he had everything. “Yes,” he said, probably thinking yes, you nag.
My husband started packing the night before our trip while watching the leaked episode of Game of Thrones, fell asleep, and hastily threw everything in his suitcase the morning of.
Of course he forgot his slacks, waiting until the last minute.
He doesn’t agree. We have a cat, Atlas, who loves stretching across his pants. “I left the pants behind for Atlas,” my husband continues to insist.
I’m inclined to believe my version but that’s just me.
So that’s what happened that Sunday: an hour before the ceremony, we ran us around an unfamiliar town, scrambling to find cocktail attire slacks for the ceremony.
You can’t take him anywhere.
“You can’t tell anyone this happened, okay?” he said, just before we walked into the church.
“I just bought these pants!” he proudly exclaimed to his friend’s ten minutes later, and proceeded to recount the whole tale.
