Me: I wish Pizzeria 712 was open really late so I could get their pizza for my hypothetical pizza party.
Lawrence: You mean the one where it's going to be Mexican food or pizza?
Me: Yeah. . . Wait, how did you know about my hypothetical pizza party?
Lawrence: I checked your messages.
(phone was in my backpack during rehearsal)
Sunday
Weddings
I thought my next blog entry would be a rant about the royal wedding and the pageantry involved. But after only watching a few arrivals, I was in awe over the utter pointlessness of ceremony, and felt sorry for the two fools smiling for the cameras. This cemented my plans to elope to Vegas and be married by Elvis. Vegas has great deals on hotel rooms and buffets. No planning needed. Some may argue that Vegas is commercial and crass, but after watching the 24-hour coverage of the royal wedding and seeing many couples spend thousands of dollars on the perfect wedding, I wonder what the difference is between Vegas and the thirty-million dollar picture-perfect, 700-guest, gourmet catered wedding on the beach in Maui complete with doves. Vegas is obviously commercial, but is commercial for the masses, compared to the selectivity that most people desire as an ambiance at their wedding. The white-robed bride is supposed to be detached from the problems that are going to be inherent in marriage. Weddings cost a fortune, but instead of being realistic as to their income, the couple (for a day or week) pretends to a much higher standard of wealth than they possess. I want weddings to start off in the seeming mundane reality. All romance stories end at the wedding or the consummation because after that everything gets “boring.” But everyday, especially those where nothing happens, is like the first morning of snowfall for the winter. It has happened before, and it will happen again. We will eventually come to hate snow for the extra time needed every morning to scrape and shovel it away, but for a few moments it is a sudden miracle. Like brushing your teeth with someone, or finding a good song on the radio – miracles are mundane. They are everywhere and all the time and every morning there is snow in May, we forget about miracles because who wants to wear a parka on top of a sunburn. So, instead of planning a wedding like many other girls do, I will dream instead about a crappy apartment in a complex populated by the Mexican gangs, whom I will probably get along with. I will dream about a sofa that was retrieved from a junk pile and sags in the middle and stacks of books all around because we don’t have shelves. I dream about having a horribly miraculous reality to share with someone.
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