Weddingbee Blog

Friday evening: rehearsal at our little New Englandy church

Really, there are two versions of events.

Version 1) Everything went fine! The pastor and his wife came up from Boston—lovely people. Our parents and wedding party and readers practiced twice, no problems. The people helping out at the church were warm and friendly. Back at the beach house, friends and family members finished setting up our laid-back rehearsal dinner.

Version 2) PChipz gonna get real for a moment.

I, like many, have and am being treated for anxiety—heart-pumping, pulse-racing, feel-like-am-about-to-jump-off-high-cliff-and-fight-with-lions-adrenaline producing anxiety at the thought of doing things I used to consider “normal” (working, shopping, driving, writing, getting out of bed in the morning…). For the most part this year, I funneled the anxiety into grad school, a most welcome bed-fellow.

But it came for a visit as soon as the rehearsal started. There was no logical reason why. All logic was left at the door. I wasn’t nervous about getting married, or worried about anything in particular. Instead, the sheer formality and seriousness of this whole marriage gig made me stiffen up. This wasn’t paper mustaches, candy-colored dresses, and scooters. This was Serious Business.

This is the part where I suggest: Do What I Say, Not What I Do.

We returned to the beach house and my heart was just hammering away. The party was beginning outside but I was feeling socially awkward and unable to relax. For a moment I considered my in-case-of-emergency-anti-anxiety medication. And then, instead, I considered booze.

Specifically, I spied my (wonderful, awesome, well-meaning) future bro-in-law in the kitchen. And I spotted a lone bottle of booze—Booker’s. Booker’s is bourbon. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to shoot bourbon. Especially out of tea cups. But we did. It went like this:

PChipz: “BRO!! I am freaking out. Let’s do shots.”

Bro: “Um…are you sure?”

PChipz: “Shots!”

Bro: “This is bourbon…”

PChipz: “Shots! Shots! Shots!”

Bro: “If you’re sure? We don’t have shot glasses but I guess we can use these tea cups. But I’m warning you, this stuff is really str—”

PChipz (already downed it): OH MY GOD. WHY DID I DO THAT???

Friends, I am not a usual drinker of hard alcohol, especially on its own, especially shot from a tea cup. A few things happened:

First, I’m pretty sure my esophagus burned, and then my stomach lining went. Second, out-of-town friends arrived, cheerful and excited, and I greeted them with “OMG-Hi-can’t-talk-throat-on-fire.” Third, I chugged half a gallon of Newman’s Own Limeade to get the taste out of my throat (bad idea: burning upon burning). Then I felt the after-effects—an immediate buzz, and I stayed that way for a couple hours. I regaled Mr. PH with the Booker’s story about five times (“Guess what I did/big mistake!!!!”).

I didn’t drink for the rest of the night, but I did enjoy a chilly early summer evening with about 30 friends and out-of-state family. Mr. PH’s parents did the most wonderful job of setting up a tent and bringing all manner of Rhode Island treats: clam cakes, Del’s lemonade, chowder, Rhode Island pizza. Mr. PH and his brother brought a keg of home brew (Golden Bear Ale) and we listened to a kicky summertime mix my sister prepared for the event.