Some moments make fools of us all…dancin’ fools

I think I could probably still use a few extra hours of sleep; it was quite a busy weekend.  The highlight, of course, The Main Event, was attending the wedding of one of my bosses.  For some people, I imagine that going to such an event might be filled with trepidation or uneasiness.  Not so in this case, but then again, I’ve known this guy since we were literally six years old.  We were best friends all throughout grade school.  It wasn’t your typical corporate attending-a-wedding-to-network type thing where you hope to get through the night without dolloping dip on your tie or calling the Vice President of Accounting’s wife “a hoochy” on accident.

Of course, being slick as I am, I did choose the moment that the owner of the company walked by to say hello the Puddinette and I as the best of all possible times to knock my beverage across the table.  It was, of course, the only beverage I spilled that night.  Nobody’s got timing like me.

As it turns out, though, that was the low point in the evening, and when spilling a free drink and damaging nothing but the tablecloth is the worst part of an evening, I think we can all agree it was pretty good night.  In fact, it was such a night that there might have, maybe, perhaps, been dancing.

weddingYes, dancing.  Yep, me, Puddin. With the music and shifting from foot to foot and the “white man’s overbite”.  Indeed, I can display a complete lack of rhythm with the best of them.  For the record, this is not a common occurrence these days.  In my youth, perhaps.  But come to think of it, weddings aren’t nearly as common in my life as they were a decade ago.  Then again, I think most people go through a period in life of where the weddings come fast and furious, in clusters, like Lucy trying to box up the chocolates.

It’s a bit of a relief when the conveyor stops moving, but it’s really more sad than you’d expect.

At any rate, while there were plenty of excuses years ago to act the fool on the dance floor, I tend to lean toward being a bit more reserved for the rare reception these days.  Yeah, because obviously I need to protect my reputation for austerity.  Obviously a guy nicknamed Puddin is nothing if not the epitome of self-restrain and decorum.

Regardless, every now and again, the right moment appears, unbidden, and reminds you of a time not so far in the past that the memory has gotten fuzzy around the edges like a fading picture.  When that moment luckily happens by, you and everyone around you get swept away, almost infected, on a wave of, well, fun.

Now, while it has been suggested that perhaps my colleagues and I were swimming deeply through the punch bowl, let me assure you that no one was really three-sheets to the wind.  I, mean, I can obviously understand assuming that I’d probably have to be channeling Mayberry’s Otis Campbell before taking to the parquet, but sometimes being with the right people at the right time is far and away a better buzz.

No, instead, we had a decent bit of silliness and a plain, old fashioned good time.  And I found myself, uncharacteristically, on the dance floor with the Puddinette and nearly ever last one of my coworkers’ Saturday night, moving about with such reckless abandon that Sunday morning I was glad I hadn’t strained anything.

There were no deadlines, conference calls, or meetings; no soccer games, weeknight dinners, or retirement plans; no sad stories, economic fears, or reports of “class warfare”.  For a few short hours Saturday night, Life got checked at the coat room, and we all had little more than each other, a surplus of broad grins, and an endless well of heartfelt laughter.

For those few short hours, we needed nothing else.

Congratulations, buddy, boss, to you and your lovely bride.  Thanks for the great party.  I promise we won’t soon forget it.

I could probably do without all the pictures though.

A picture really does say a thousand words.

Some of which probably didn’t need to be said.

Pud’n

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