Do You Take This Woman…
Weddings are great if you can remember them
I know I’m jumping ahead, but this memory just came back to me and at my age, if I don’t write it down immediately, well I don’t really know where it goes.
First of all, I am not talking about my own wedding. The wedding I am referring to took place in the middle 1970s. My friend was getting married, and I should not have been drinking. Of course, being an alcoholic, I suppose that could always be said, but this was one of those times I didn’t know where that next drink was going to take me, but I had it anyway; and many more after that. I don’t remember if I smoked any pot that night, but if I did, I shouldn’t have done that, either.
It was common bachelor knowledge that bridesmaids, as far as taking one home, was low hanging fruit. These were the 70s, after all. Everyone’s libido was out of control.
I had enough alcohol in me to get me on the dance floor. I had enough presence of mind to pick a bridesmaid to accompany me. We danced, we laughed, and the only thing I remember was her suggestion to go back to her place.
It was a night to remember. Unfortunately, I don’t. She could walk right in front of me and I wouldn’t recognize her. I do not say that with any pride. She was probably a very nice young lady who brought home an alcoholic. I don’t know what it was about bridesmaids. Perhaps it’s the dress. Perhaps they’d rather be the bride than the bridesmaid. Perhaps the real reason adds nothing to the story.
I remember waking up in a nice soft bed with a big fluffy quilt and lots of pillows. I knew right away I wasn’t home. I looked next to me and she was still sleeping. My brain switched to the mode that was never confined to the Baby Boomer generation, but rather had been around since the beginning of time.
I gotta get the fuck outta here.
After quickly dressing and miraculously not making a sound, I found the front door. There was a small stack of mail on a table near the front door which made me realize I didn’t even remember her name.
Well, that’s just plain rude. So, I took the top letter off the stack and brought it with me.
After finally finding my car, I got in and realized I had no idea what neighborhood I was in. So, I drove around and finally found a familiar street. Feeling comfortable, finally, I pulled out the letter to find out the name of the person with whom I had spent the night with and presumably had sex. This was the 70s. I don’t think they invented condoms, yet.
At the first red light, I looked at the envelope to find out her name.
I had spent the night with “Occupant.”
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