My sanity level as a result of not being able to sleep much, given that the wedding was on a football Sunday.
Everyone's malice toward me because I was apparently late to this wedding, even though it wasn't my fault.
Some douche camera guy who kept telling me to put my chin down, even though I was basically looking at the ground.
However, all of those items occurred prior to the actual wedding. We drove over to the location where the ceremony and reception would take place. We were early, so I drove my girlfriend back to my parents' house, so she could pick up her car. She planned on drinking later, so it would make sense if we went back in just one car. I'd have the misfortune of being mostly sober, as I'd have an entire slate of football games to watch - yeah, I know, my life is so difficult - so I was the obvious choice as the designated driver.
By the time we got back to the wedding location, there was panic amongst the bridesmaids. Apparently, my sister's bouquet was missing.
I volunteered to look around, but only to get into everyone's good graces again. Like I said, everyone was mad at me for some reason, so this was my chance to be the hero and save the day.
There was just one problem: I didn't know what a bouquet looked like. Yeah, I know, they're like flowers, or whatever, but what color is a bouquet? And does it have anything special attached to the flowers? Some candy, perhaps? Or what about one of those teddy bears that come with those Valentine's Day flowers?
I did a quick Google image search of "bouquet," and it wasn't much help. Try it yourself, and see how many flower combinations there are. I see red flowers, orange flowers, yellow flowers, blue flowers, purple flowers, pink flowers, white flowers. Basically, every color except black.
I almost stopped searching for the bouquet because I was offended. Why were there all types of colors except black? What, are the black (African American?) flowers not good enough? Why can't they be represented in bouquets? Martin Luther King Jr. and Jesse Jackson would be rolling in their graves right now if they learned of this.
However, it was my sister's wedding, so I put my mission to be as PC Bro as possible aside. Flowers... flowers... flowers... where could there possibly be flowers?
And that's when it hit me: There were flowers in the middle of each table! All I'd have to do is grab one of those and tell everyone that I found the bouquet, and then I'd be a hero! It was only a matter of assembling the right colors, so I had to find out for sure what color flowers my sister had in her bouquet.
I approached one of the bridesmaids and asked this question. She shook her head.
"Walt, she just left them on the bus," she said. "The bus is coming back, so she'll have it soon."
Curses! I thought my grand-master plan would allow me to go down as the savior of this wedding. Instead, everyone would go on hating me. Oh well.
The Dreaded Introduction:
The ceremony went well. At least for the bride and groom. I, on the other hand, was having issues. You see, I have chronic back issues, so I can't stand up for too long without it hurting. Seriously, it's bad. Even if I walk around the mall for a bit, I have to sit down and allow my back to take a break. And here's the sad thing: I'm only 33. I can't imagine how much pain I'll be in when I'm 43, 53, 63, etc. I'm holding out hope that science invents something that allows humans to never walk again. That will be the greatest invention since lesbian porn.
I was struggling throughout the ceremony. The dress shoes made it worse. I kept bending my knees, but nothing worked. I was wincing in pain during the second half of the ceremony. Some people may have thought I was crying tears of joy, but I was just trying my hardest not to topple over.
Next time, I'm going to request a wheelchair. Seriously. I desperately need one. And I could tell people who don't know me that I got injured during the war. What war, I don't know, but a war nonetheless. Unfortunately, this stratagem wasn't going to work so well at my sister's wedding, given that A) Everyone knows that I make fun of people on the Internet rather than fight in wars and B) The guy she's marrying served in the military, so this would be in bad taste. Then again, everyone hated me already, so how much worse could it get?
Once the ceremony was over, it was the time I was most dreading - when we'd be announced to the wedding guests.
"What are we doing when we enter the room?" I asked my girlfriend. She just shook her head. "I don't know, just improvise, I guess," she replied.
Improvise? IMPROVISE!? How can I possibly improvise? I don't know how to dance at all, yet I was supposed to improvise? This would be like flying down to some third-world country and telling an illiterate, hungry kid, "Hey, write a college-level essay for me, and if you don't know what to write about, just improvise."
He obviously can't improvise a college-level essay, much like I can't improvise any dance moves. If you think this is too extreme of an example, I mean, OK, I guess it is. Writing a college-level essay is easy because you don't have to do it in front of hundreds of people who will all inevitably laugh at you. Sorry, third-world country kid, improvising dance moves is much more difficult.
I suddenly had a panic attack. I still didn't know what to improvise. I asked my girlfriend what we were doing again, and she sounded annoyed this time. "I don't know, Walt, just figure it out."
Figure it out? FIGURE IT OUT!?
The clock was ticking. One-by-one, those in front of us were being introduced. Two couples left. Then one left. Then just us.
"The brother of the bride, Walter Cherepinsky, and his girlfriend-!" I heard the announcer shout, as I moved through the door. My girlfriend walked ahead of me, leaving me behind. I waved my hand in the air - I wish I didn't care - and then waved my other hand. And then my first hand again. And then I kept walking.
"BOOOOOOOOOOO!" I heard someone yell. Seriously. Someone booed me.
I got to the dance floor, where my girlfriend was already doing something on the dance floor. I tried to improvise and figure it out, but the best I could come up with was just cuffing my hands and moving them slightly up and down, and then tilting my body 10 degrees to the right and doing the same, and then 10 degrees to the left. I did this three times, and then my nightmare was over. The next couple was announced.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?" the Reverend, a friend of mine, asked. I then looked at my other friend, Body Burner, who was laughing hysterically. My girlfriend shook her head.
"You're the most awkward dude ever!" she shouted.
No doubt. At that moment, I would've killed to be some third-world kid asked to write an essay.
My dad spent like a billion dollars on food. That's seriously all I heard during the months leading up to the wedding.
"The food is going to be so good!" my parents frequently exclaimed. I, however, had my doubts. My parents are into fancy-shmancy Russian food, while my idea of a good meal is a double cheeseburger and cheese fries. This is what I want to eat at my wedding.
I was pessimistic, but some of the food was fine. The lamb was good, and I was a fan of the potatoes, though this place didn't have any ketchup. I didn't get that. How could they have flowers at each table, but no ketchup? Ketchup is much more important!
They eventually served this course featuring something I didn't recognize. My girlfriend, Body Burner and the Reverend all loved it. "Try it!" my girlfriend said.
One of the things I hate most in this world is trying new stuff, but I relented. She put a piece of whatever it was onto my plate. I cut a piece off and shoved it into my mouth.
I spit it out super quickly and then engulfed my entire glass of Pepsi. That still didn't take the horrible taste out of my mouth.
"What the hell is that!?" I shrieked.
"It's raspberry chicken," she said. "How can you not like it?"
Raspberry chicken? RASPBERRY CHICKEN!? Who in their right mind eats raspberry chicken!? The things don't go together. It'd be like ordering pizza ice cream, or macaroni and pubes. Barbeque chicken, good. Fried chicken, great. Raspberry chicken, HORRIBLE! If my dad spent billions of dollars on food, why couldn't he at least have bought some fried chicken? It's not that difficult to find. All you have to do is go to KFC!
I shoved the plate with the raspberry sauce under the table. Maybe this wasn't the classiest thing to do, but I didn't even want to look at that raspberry sauce anymore. It made me want to vomit.
I initially settled on more potatoes and lamb. The Reverend looked at my plate and shook his head.
"You're so bland," he said.
So bland? SO BLAND? Meh, OK. Yes, I am bland. What's wrong with being bland? Bland is good. You know what you're getting with bland. You're getting safe stuff like potatoes and lamb. Or, very tasty stuff like double cheeseburgers and cheese fries. What you don't get, by being bland, is raspberry chicken, or macaroni and pubes.
As crazy as it may sound, I think I'd rather have a plateful of macaroni and pubes over raspberry chicken. Fortunately, I don't have another sibling, so my dad won't have the opportunity to purchase macaroni and pubes for the next wedding.
I've gone over my hatred of dancing many times in Jerks of the Week, so I won't bore you. The gist of why I absolutely hate dancing is because it doesn't make sense to me. I took a year of physics in high school and endured two semesters of it at Penn State, yet they never taught us how to dance. The same goes for geometry class. I just don't get the physics and geometry of dancing, so I move so awkwardly that people laugh at how poorly I dance. Oh, and dancing for too long also hurts my back!
My girlfriend wanted to dance after dinner, so I followed her to the dreaded dance floor. I tried to do stuff, but it wasn't working out.
"Try to do what I'm doing!" she shouted, but I couldn't follow. It felt like I was always about three seconds behind, and I couldn't seem to copy her moves.
"Move your feet!" she shouted. "You're not moving your feet!" Move my feet? How? In what way? What direction? What angle? How quickly? What force should I use when planting my feet back on the ground? What distance should my feet be apart from each other? Do I move one foot more than the other? Should I bend my knees? If so, what angle? Should I be bending them all the time? This stuff was not covered in my physics and geometry classes.
This was stressing me out greatly, and I was about to have another panic attack, so I told my girlfriend I was going to the bathroom. I actually did have to go tinkle, but I could've held it in if I wasn't so upset about people laughing at my crappy dance moves.
I'm telling you, I absolutely loathe dancing. It's so horrible. I'm being honest when I say this, but I'd rather have a root canal - and I've had one already - rather than dance for just as long. If I ever become President of the United States, my first act is to abolish dancing. That, and raspberry chicken.
I walked into the bathroom, and a man in his 60s with a white mustache at the sink stopped me before I could approach a urinal.
"Why are you sober!?" he shouted at me, inexplicably. I normally wouldn't have answered a random person's question in the bathroom, but he seemed so furious to be talking to someone who wasn't intoxicated, so I had to explain myself. By the time I was done, all he had to say was "hmph" and then left the bathroom. All-righty, then.
After I was done peeing, I chose to go outside rather than back to the dance floor again. I found some of my friends sitting down at the tables out there, so I joined them. I sat there for a while as we BSed about random things. I knew I couldn't screw that up like I always do with dancing, so I remained there.
Eventually, the news came around that my sister and her new husband were about to cut the cake. My friends stood up, and then I followed.
The sound of glass shattering was heard near me.
What the hell was going on? I spun around, but still couldn't tell what was happening.
"Walt, stop moving!" someone shouted, but it was too late. I stepped away from the table.
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
I finally saw what was happening. The table cloth was caught on my pants, and with each step I took away from the table, the more table cloth I was taking with me. As a result, all of the glasses that were on this table cloth were plummeting to their demise. There was one glass still remaining on the table, but it was on the edge. I reached for it, but the table cloth completely fell off as a result.
I just single-handedly shattered 10 glasses. The people who saw this clapped sarcastically, as I once again embarrassed myself.
I went back inside and found my girlfriend, who was now standing around the cake.
"You'll never believe what happened!" she shouted. "Some blonde girl was pushing me around the dance floor and I almost started a fight with- wait, why are your pants all wet?"
I described what happened, and she laughed.
"You're the most awkward dude ever!" she said, repeating herself from earlier.
Apparently, I am. But amid humiliating myself all evening, people began to laugh at me rather than hate me. So, I guess that's a plus.