It’s springtime, and riding in on the wind come allergies. But I’m not talking about the kind of allergies that tickle your sinuses. (Well, I am, I suppose, but bear with me.) Instead, I’m talking about an allergic reaction that makes me feel like someone’s taken a cheese grater or even a lawnmower to my brain.
Wedding receptions.
Understanding that most normal people are fine with them, and also realizing that it’s nice to go to friends’ receptions to share in their joy (translation: give them an expensive present), I find myself on the fringes, halfheartedly trying to take part but blown to smithereens each time. Actually, truth be told, I’ve been to six wedding receptions total (that I can think of; there may be one or two more so bad that my brain has permanently quarantined them away from my memory). Two were neighbors, and four were mission friends (two of which were roommates, one of which was a coworker).
I don’t know why I can’t handle receptions, but to me they really do feel like walking on molten gravel with shards of glass thrown in and, oh, heck, nails on a chalkboard for good measure. I’ve tried to get past the reaction, to attempt to act like a normal person and maybe even enjoy the receptions I’ve been to, but the whole time my subconscious is screaming, “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” and trying to move me away from the center of activity so I can covertly slip away into the real world. You could call it a panic or anxiety attack, if that makes it seem more legitimate to you. Whatever it is, though, it’s helped me spontaneously contract the bubonic plague (and even ebola a few times) just minutes before receptions begin. It’s given me tests the next day, deadlines, hospitalized grandparents, war erupting down the street, my home knocked out by Palestinian snipers — anything to avoid receptions.
When I get engaged, I’m going to sit down with my soon-to-be mother-in-law and have a nice heart-to-heart. “Wedding receptions are overrated, Mother,” I’ll say. “You get a bridal shower already — how about we just cancel the reception, save a bucketload of money, and paint a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square on the front lawn marked ‘Present Drop-Off Zone’ instead? Oh, and have I ever told you how absolutely beautiful you look in that dress? And your eyes! Exquisite.”
And yes, I know it won’t work, but I have to at least give it a try. Since there’ll undoubtedly be a reception, the next best thing is to send one of my clones (Ben #13 would be a good sport for things like this) and hope he doesn’t say anything out of place. Failing that, I could call 911 just before the reception starts — accidentally slip down the stairs or something. True, the hospital isn’t exactly the most romantic place to spend your wedding day, but standing in a line shaking hands with plastic smiles attached? Give me an IV, Doctor.
All the women in the room may now proceed to launch their poisoned darts. :P

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