7 liters of water = almost 2 gallons. This is, according to a poll taken among the semi-conscious survivors who attended Max and Shina's wedding in Canada this past week-end, the amount of chlorine water individually swallowed during the 3 day-0 night event (for fermented beverages equivalent, please multiply results by 1.7 per child, by 7.8 per French/US/ Korean citizen, by 14.03 per Canadian and by 49.2 if you lost your shoes, a reading glasses lens, stole someone else's underwear and returned to New York wearing nothing but a heavily scratched forehead and a white towel –also stolen. Same for those who swam in the Jacuzzi in their birthday suit. If you happen to be the person who did both, you're my hero.)
Staring at the official report I also finally grasped the deeper meaning behind dressing butt-white bridesmaid in green dresses: so that they –we- would nicely match the stunning chlorophyll patches on the backdrop mountains during photo shoots, and fully blend in when sitting at the bottom of a pool. Or Jacuzzi. Shower? Heck, as long as you drank your requested 7 liters, you could try to swim in the kitchen sink if you wanted.
The ceremony itself was nothing less than unforgettable. We had the most beautiful bride and groom, drunk people galore and a plethora and good Samaritans willing to befriend just about anyone –hereby acknowledging that the last two might strongly be related. We danced, we hugged, we cried, we changed clothe and got pushed in the Jacuzzi again, from where we gazed at a rising sun. I also vaguely remember attempting to give a speech during diner, but by that time I was too scared, too intoxicated, and too incapable of articulating for anyone to understand. Writing part of the speech in Korean didn't seem to help. This pathetic public appearance was met by the rather open-minded public the way it deserved to be: its creator thrown into the pool, green dress and all. 2.5 liters down, 4.5 liters to go.
Besides deciding to Google and copy/paste "wedding speeches" next time I am asked to speak my mind - if ever-, I have also learned that sometimes, it is best to communicate in English with a Québécois... thus avoiding to laugh hysterically at their accent when one cries out for help, drowning.
As I told both families before leaving the party: "Best Barmitsva ever!!!"
Watery eyes on the horizon, we drove back from Mont-Tremblant last night, the air filled with nostalgia and the acrid smell coming from my highly hangover neighbor.
3 miles to the US-Canadian border, a car filled with what resembled a team of Ultimate Super Mario Bros. contestants pulled next to our lane, getting ready to wait an extra 2 hours to return to their cherished land. Alcohol, exhaustion and embedded stupidity probably helping, I scrambled a "What's your number?" at the back of the wedding invitation and handed it over to Laurent, my very drunk but very serviceable passenger. He flashed it through the window and quickly proceeded to return to hibernation. The dashing appearance apparently gave them enough time to decipher, process, and kick the brave out of the car so he could walk over to ours, in the middle of a clogged highway. As we exchanged digits I sank while adding a name to the number: Justin. With a J.
Note to whoever is setting my life up and getting a kick out of it: could we go down the alphabet just for a change, or am I being punished because I figured out I was running on fiscal year (hence the 2006 –April 2007 "J" recurrence, for those who followed) and haven't actually paid my taxes yet?
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