Tuesday, July 24, 2007


I see her at WalMart running through pictures on their digital little machine thing...and all I can think is: I want to have a better wedding than her.

It is completely rude and petty and ridiculous - I know - but I can't help it. It's also completely, stereotypically girly - but for some reason - when I get that way... Like when I fret over dry skin, bad hair and a fading tan - I feel a tad bit more real. When I feel girly, I feel real.

It's not always easy. In fact, over dinner the other night, I told Rachel how I spent a majority of my adolescence shopping in the boys section of department stores because I didn't know a thing about clothes at all. And though I still don't - I do know my size in a pair of jeans and I do enjoy a tank top from time to time. And I certainly know when I'm showing off good cleavage. Whether or not that last item is a good thing - I'm not really sure.

But standing there, watching her, it was all I could think...as I moved my cart past her and went to pick up my yogurt and wheat bread. I want a better wedding. I bet she's getting her pictures done here, I though. At WalMart. I can be the most heinous bitch. I know this. So nobody has to feel as though they must inform me of that fact, thankyouverymuch.

I imagined incredibly elegant pictures. Black and white, mostly. None of that sepia crap. I like sepia - but not for wedding photos. And no cheesy reception hall. Something classy. My uncle married his wife in a large outdoor venue in Israel. There were tables set outside around a large stone circle that served as the dance floor. It was beautiful. I think of that. Or a wedding in New York. We'd have photos of us walking through the city.

No cheap, bland, uncreative food. Stuff that's hard to say - but so delicious. Lots of alcohol... And not just a Top 40 soundtrack. Not just the latest summer songs that people dance to - but good, quality, classic stuff. Stevie, Aretha, The Temptations, Al Green, Ella and Louie and as much cult 80's music that I can find.

As I get out to the car, I realize how ridiculous the whole trip in my mind had been.

She doesn't know who I am or anything about me. And I don't know anything about her. Except that my wedding better kick her wedding's ass.

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