Whinging It

Wife and I spent a lovely time in the Russian River area this past weekend.  In part, we were on a small getaway for Wife’s birthday, and in part we were tagging along with some friends who were scouting the area for their wedding in 6 months.  All told, there were three couples total including us, which is the perfect number of people.  There’s enough variety in personality that there’s always someone to talk to, but not enough people to qualify for Too Large Crew.

There was much fun, laughter, booze, and mis-guided attempts to play Taboo.  Early in the evening I put my hair in numerous Princess Leia buns all over my head as the prospective bride, who had undergone a trial wedding hairdo that morning, gave me half of her bobby pins. At the bar after dinner, some poor sap put “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” on the jukebox, and in deference to my Colorado gals, I put on a spirited theatrical performance for the whole bar.  (Best question after: “Were you in Riverdance?”)  And even though there were aspects of the evening I regretted (namely, the ill-advised gimlet at the end of the night), it was fantastic to wake up the next morning and know that despite my foibles and quirks, and maybe because of, I have fun in my life.  In between asking Wife, “Wait.  Did I DANCE last night at that bar that was only a counter and had no discernible dance floor?,” I had moments of clarity that THIS is what it feels like to not give a shit.  To be me and to do what feels fun to me without caring if I came off as goofy or dorky.  Because the truth is I AM goofy and dorky.

I do a Riverdance in celebration of myself.

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Because of the distant wedding preparations of our friends, we spent a lot of time in the lodge dining room tasting different dishes, critiquing the bar’s selection, and being very amused by the Celine Dion-heavy music rotation.  Ha ha! said we about Celine Dion.  Can you imagine anything worse than Celine being played on your wedding weekend all the whole time? We started cringing with each new song on the track list.  (Is that a cover of MEATLOAF?)  So it was with relief that “The Girl from Ipanema” cued up, as who doesn’t love it?  We swayed in time, sighed “Ah!” at the appropriate junctures in the song, and were content.

But then, two songs later, it was on again.  Sure, it was a cover by a different artist, but still definitely about a girl.  From Ipanema.  We giggled.  What are the odds? we thought.  What were the odds indeed.  There was another cover a few songs later, and then, on the hour, it all started over.  Three versions of Ipanema in an hour.  We stopped swaying.  There was tension.  Suddenly, the song seemed menacing: “The girl from Ipanema goes walking / And when she passes, each one she passes goes – AAAAHHHH!”

I asked the management to please change the CD.  They forgot.  The girl from Ipanema kept walking.

I still have it in my head.