Out in the yard, wedding.

For me, Memorial Day has always been a time of change. Shifting from school years and crew seasons to lethargic summer vacations, for one. Or heralding the season of vineyard weekends and Central Park suntans, for another. But this Memorial Day marked a new change; as of Saturday, I have passed from having single friends to having married friends, and I cannot turn back. Summer weddings are sprouting far into the horizon, and their roots threaten to choke the life from my precious summer weekends.
I spent my Saturday in Northern Virginia at a quaint Methodist Church, where a pastor told the two wedds to "maintain everlasting love for each other under Fear of God", which seemed through my hangover to be a bit heavy for 10:15am. I was also still recovering from another first; in my life, I had never been reprimanded over footwear on Memorial Day weekend. But upon arriving for the service in my dapper new Brooks Brothers seersucker suit and flipflops, I discovered that the end of spring does not, in fact, mean "shoes optional."
Circa-1993 mulletted DJ aside, the country club reception was salvageable by downing 2 six-packs of vodka tonics and 1 sixer of caucasians from the open bar; and being the only actual single at the entire wedding, I didn't have much competition for the garter throw.

The ride home was uneventful after stripping to my underwear and changing in front of the club, mostly because I slept 5 hours of the way. (And the bladder control I exhibited upon waking in the face of inhuman pain until the next rest stop should be a story for the ages.) The weekend, however, was a washout.
So do the world a favor when it comes to marriage, and time your wedding to pop out in the cold dreariness of winter, when people need excuses to get out and the unexpected life of a dandelion in the sidewalk would be a cheer.