The Move You Should Not Pull At A Wedding This Summer

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Ah, wedding season. The four month period every other year when you burn half a dozen vacation days, two full paychecks, and countless precious “sitting on the couch doing jack shit” hours on a couple you don’t really know as well as they think you do.

Now that I’m a newfangled California resident and living with my capital R Roommate, I have five weddings that I’m contractually obligated to attend this summer. The capital R Roommate has been to exactly 40+ of these things because, well, she’s a little older than me and much more socially adjusted. She’s gone to weddings in different countries, organized and participated in numerous bridal party activities, and been the Maid of Honor more times than I’ve received 20% off at Bed Bath and Beyond.

For comparison’s sake, I haven’t been to a wedding in three years. My friends haven’t been getting married. I don’t have as many friends as she does. Because I’m kind of an asshole.

“C’mon JR, don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not your fault…” is what you’re NOT going to think after reading the series of events that took place two weeks ago at Wedding #1. Allow me to break down The Move I pulled that ruined the entire weekend and weeks to follow. It’s a bonafide classic. Roll tape!

Me: I had been sick the whole week leading up to the wedding. And not the fucking sniffles, but “hadn’t slept in three nights and had to go to Urgent Care” sick. Like most men in their mid-twenties, I get this sick just about every time Hailie’s Comet passes Earth. The capital R Roommate? She usually gets “sick” because it’s a Tuesday. The last thing I wanted to do was get on an airplane and fly anywhere for anything.

The location: We flew down to Orange County, picked up her car and drove to San Diego for the ceremony. Doesn’t sound like a bad time until you realize the next morning we had to drive back to San Francisco, which is a ten-hour fucking drive. Nothing makes you want to do the Twist and Shout less than knowing the entire next day you’ll be doing the “Sit and Listen To Bullshit Country Music” for five hours.

The bride and groom: Of the five weddings I’m going to this summer, this was the only couple I didn’t know or had yet to meet. When I grilled the RM about how she knew them, she said she was friends with the groom in college. Wait so a decade ago? Would there be a group of people there we could hang out with that she knew well? Not at all? Why are we going to this thing again?

The venue: The middle of Balboa Park on the north side of San Diego. The ceremony, reception, and after party all took place at the same spot, which was basically a restaurant/ballroom space. There wasn’t a bar anywhere within two miles of where we were, which was a BIG problem. Here’s why:

The date: This is the key detail that made this whole situation a living, breathing nightmare. It was on Saturday, May 2nd. Derby Day, Clippers-Spurs Game 7 and motherfucking Fight Night. And like I mentioned, not a bar or TV within miles. Now, I’m a warm blooded American male with a love for organized sports and a penchant for placing a wager or two. Having to sit there at the farthest corner table with the rest of the D-Listers and raise a glass to someone I didn’t even know (and who, let’s be honest, she didn’t know) while my Yahoo Gametime app informs me that Chris Paul just hit a ridiculous buzzer beater to clinch Game 7 sent me into a black hole of misery that I couldn’t be removed from. Which is what led to me making The Move.

The Move: The Capital R Roommate, who I adore and is a saint for putting up with most of my antics, is pretty aware of my misery level at this point. She’s a much more delightful person than me, and it sometimes is to our detriment because she’ll commit to events such as this, which, in all honesty, we shouldn’t have committed to in the first place. She turns to me as the crowd starts heading to the dance floor and very sweetly asks if I want to dance. “No,” I snap. “Well then what do you want to do?” she asks. “I want to go watch the Mayweather-Paquaio fight.” This is when she poses the timeless declaration that women have used as standardized testing materials for decades. She says, “Then go then.”

So I went.

Googled a place to watch the fight, called an Uber, took it to the Gaslamp District, paid $50 cover at the door and watched the fight with a crowd of San Diegans BY MYSELF at a bar wearing my monkey suit. Right around the time the newest Mrs. Whatshisface was cutting into her wedding cake I sent my buddies this picture.

Pictured: a dead man walking

As I left that reception, my heart was pounding through my sternum. I knew what I was doing was revolutionary. I also knew that I was throwing a pipe bomb into our weekend plans. At that moment it did not matter. I had just spent a lot of money to travel 500 miles to sit and pretend to give a shit about two people I didn’t know during the biggest sporting night of the year. And I had to wake up early and drive back in the morning. Fuck the rules, fuck decency, and fuck those people. The indecent thing to do would have been to sit at that wedding, not dance, and draw attention to myself. Right? RIGHT? Hello…?

Back to real life. I’ve been in the fucking DOGHOUSE for the past 14 days. And I deserve it, sure. Was it worth it? Probably not. Would I have committed a double murder suicide on that dance floor if I had been forced to stay? 100% yes. So in a way, it was the right decision and the wrong decision. My buddies think I’m a legend and my capital R Roommate thinks I need to grow up. She says I need to prove myself to get back in her good graces. Good thing her boss’s wedding is this weekend..

Image via YouTube

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JR Hickey

Stand up comedian and writer from Chicago who now resides on the West Coast. JR can be seen performing at Cobbs Comedy Club in San Francisco and Zanies Comedy Clubs in Chicago. His work has been published in the Chicago Tribune and recently he was a part of SF Sketchfest 2015. JR's also the host of the PGP dating podcast Don't Take It From Us. He loves you very, very much.

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