Suspicions confirmed

This weekend, I firmly cemented a few ideas that have been simmering in my brain.

Warm weather without humidity is the best thing ever.
On Friday, the weather gods blessed Kennett Square with 70-degree weather. At first, I looked askance at the forecast because even that level of heat can be too much for me. I loathe sweating, and my black hair speeds up the process of me wilting into a disheveled mess. Plus, I do not love wearing shorts, and April was far too early in my internal calendar to break those out. But as soon as I stepped outside— in my spring uniform of jeans, flip-flops, tank top, and cardigan — I breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it was hot, yes, but there was not a drop of humidity in the air. Cue the angels singing! It was just warm enough to feel like spring, without any energy-sucking heaviness to take the fun out of it. JG and I spent the morning meandering through Longwood Gardens, taking advantage of our so-worth-it membership. It was lovely to waltz (not literally) past the ticket people, get our membership card scanned by the elderly volunteer, and then have the pleasure of quiet pathways, lovely flowers, and burgeoning ideas for our landscaping. No humidity and amazing views? Well!

I should not be a wedding planner.
When a former youth group girl, Diana, got engaged a year and a half ago, I reassured her that I would help out with the wedding in any way she needed me. Well, she took me up on it and asked me if I would be her day-of wedding coordinator, her “Franck,” as she put it. It was all very flattering, and I rolled up my spreadsheet sleeves to get my ducks in a row. Diana and I had monthly meetings so that I would be attuned to all the details, thus rendering me able to answer any questions from paranoid parents or quell bossy bridesmaids. I arrived at the rehearsal with no less than seven spreadsheets that listed everything from the florist’s cell phone number to my to-do list for Saturday morning, and Diana introduced me to the family and friends as “being in charge of you all.” Thankfully, the rehearsal went smoothly, and I felt relatively confident for Saturday to arrive.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed. Every so often, a new item popped into my head, and I turned on my reading light and grabbed the notebook on my nightstand to scribble down something like, “Bring fine-point permanent markers” or “Remind ushers that they need to dismiss people by row.” I probably got about four hours of sleep while JG slumbered peacefully next to me.

On Saturday, only a fraction of my anxiety came to fruition. The wedding went well, more or less (I hear it was beautiful, anyway), with the exception of three panicked moments:

• The unity candle had disappeared sometime between the rehearsal and morning of the wedding, and the sound guy managed to find some kind of replacement. At twenty minutes before the ceremony, I didn’t even care what it was, as long as it would light and stay that way. We still have not figured out what came of the original candle.
• A grandmother did not arrive until five minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start. Members of the bridal party and extended family created a running loop of “Is Grandma Ginny here yet?” as I stood there, helplessly, with her corsage in hand. When she finally arrived, she was crying from sheer mortification that her ride had been so ridiculously late, so I had to talk her down from the ledge as I shuffled her into place next to her escort.
• One of the groomsmen disappeared right before the reception, so his accompanying bridesmaid was left without an escort for the introduction of the bridal party. I have yet to get the full story on that one because I launched right into solution mode at the time.

While I am so glad that I was able to help Diana and take care of logistics for her, I am fully convinced that I could not handle this level of stress on a weekly basis. I ran around the site in flip-flops for a good hour that morning, learned how to pin corsages, and cued the processional before I could catch a breath. Once I got to my table at the reception, I was so disappointed to find that they had run out of mini-quiche! Bah! I will be happy to be a regular guest who will wear her dressy shoes, buy a slow cooker off of the registry, and eat her bacon-wrapped scallop, thank you very much.

I am hopeless at playing Guitar Hero.
Last week, JG ordered and received Guitar Hero for Wii, and he has been building his rock godliness with surprising dedication, all the while giving me not-so-subtle nudges to try it out for myself. I was not enthusiastic. See, I am awful at Dance Dance Revolution (or, “Stomp Stomp Revolution,” as I call it), and I am eternally bitter because I can actually dance in real life. Why doesn’t any of that transfer over to this Mario-themed game? Argh. I had this sinking feeling that my remedial guitar-playing skills would come to the same end with Guitar Hero.

Against my better judgment, I strapped on the guitar last night. We were having people over for the specific purpose of playing the game, and I thought my inaugural attempt would be less painful with a smaller audience. I worked through the basic guitar lessons, and I could already feel my body tensing and my scalp sweating. With much trepidation, I selected “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” on Easy, but I almost immediately started missing notes with my trembling fingers. I threw my hands up.

“That’s it! I’m not doing this.”

I took the guitar off with shaking hands and handed it to JG, who had a disappointed look on his face. He just wanted me to have fun, but he could tell how excruciating the experience was for me. Oh, well. Every rock star needs a fan, so I figure that I can fill that position … while I work on crosswords.