To An Irish Lass On Her Wedding Day
Today is the wedding of one of my oldest and closest friends, Laura, to the handsome Paul.
Laura and I share many things in common. A penchant for sour cream and onion potato chips. Irish fathers who still think of us as virgins despite all evidence to the contrary. A deep, mad, true love for books. A preference for staying in and going to bed early. Really, really pale skin. We met in fourth grade, when her mother was sick with breast cancer, and my mother brought her over a casserole. Our families have been close ever since.
I’m really happy for her today. After years of searching (and more than one drunken night together that ended up with us both making out with separate boys next to one another at a bar in the East Village), she has found the perfect man to share her life with. Back to the making out thing for a second—the best one of those stories is when we crashed a New Year’s Eve Party at the Gansevoort Hotel, where we proceeded to jump in the pool with our party dresses on, and respectively made out with a guy until we got kicked out. Long story, short, like good Catholic girls, we didn’t go home with either of them, but we did end up hailing down a stretch limo on the street to take us back to my apartment. Fun times. See you out there.
Laura and I have been through a lot over the years. Snuggling on the couches at our respective familial homes, reading. Moving apartments in flip flops and skirts by ourselves, without any men to help us.
Living together in Florence during our junior year abroad, where we were both so homesick that we barely left our room for the first month. Instead, we slept a lot, ate up to six meals a day, and read novels in adjacent twin beds, while our host mother’s adult son ran around in his underwear outside of our door, terrifying the shit out of us.
Alright, I gotta stop writing this shitty blog post, or else I’m going to be late for the actual wedding.
I’m sure I’ll post like a million Instagram photos. #killme
