Every now and then, something wonderful happens: you are invited to attend an event that takes place during the day and involves alcohol.
This past weekend, my friends and I, whether parents or not, were lucky enough to attend one such event, only enhanced even further, by the fact that it was a dear, old friend’s wedding. “Dear” and “old” can only mean two things at our age. One, that we have done things together that we will never forget, things that we will not tell our children about, and two, that since we’ve known eachother for so long, we will end up sitting at a table where everyone around it is our also our dear, old friend. And in this case, partner.
I will not speak for the partners, they will one day own up and talk for themselves, but us girls, well, we feel like we’re going to prom, or having a one-year-later high school reunion, or we’re 21 at last, in the U.S., and it’s finally time to drink.
Let me be more specific. The day started a few weeks earlier, when every day, it was the highlight of our lives. What to wear, what do other people wear, sandals or pumps, babysitters, designated drivers, I’m telling you: prom.
The day of, we let our toddlers use our mascara, just in case it gives us a opportunity to snatch the blush brush out of their hands. We arrive late. And we begin to talk. To hug people. To laugh. To kiss people. To talk some more. It does not stop.
The bride walks in, we cry. The groom makes a speech, we cry again. The father of the bride shakes our hand; waterworks. The bartenders, a good 20 years behind us in the walk of life, smirk every time they see us line up in front of them, asking to pour our own drinks, because only we know how to mix them right. We get on the dance floor and bust the moves that we used to make fun of, that our children will one day see and turn crimson.
Suddenly, the music stops, and we don’t notice, until the bride and groom make their exit.
“Can we stay longer?” one of us yells.
High heels in hand, arms intertwined with our less excited partners, we stumble towards our cars, happy, light-headed, we’d finally felt free.
The next morning, we realize that it’s not simply the sudden freedom that had made us go wild. It was watching an incredible beginning, a beginning that we too had once lived, a beginning so precious and fleeting, that it’s a moment like no other, in whichever way or form way it began. A beginning that gives us all the wind, the strength, the power, to keep on fighting for its memory for the rest of our lives.
Congratulations Nina Stavropoulos and Michalis Moulakis. May your gush of wind forever push you forward.