“In 800 yards. Make. A U-turn.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Gina, it told you to make a U-turn.”
“What if that’s not legal here?”
“Then we just tell the police officer that the nice British lady in your GPS told us it was legal, so it’s totally cool.”
Gina commences epic U-turn across Street Road.
Sometimes as Gina and I wander around being – well, us – I catch myself wondering: why are we allowed to do this?
At no time has this question been more present in my mind than today, as Gina chauffeured me around the city to cross last-minute to-dos off of my wedding prep list. Right now we are sitting in a hotel room on a key-protected floor looking at the ridiculously awesome costume jewelry Gina will be wearing tomorrow in my wedding.
This is after nearly crashing our luggage cart in the hotel parking lot, surviving our epic U-turn, me almost pitching my electric guitar through a display case at Bluebond, buying seemingly a hundred travel-sized personal condiments, earlier wandering around a masquerade store discussing the logistics of whether Moses’ crook is effectively the same thing as Little Bo Peep’s crook, and general driving all around the city wailing along to my official last-day-of-bachelordom CD, Pinkerton.
We are two fairly ridiculous human beings on our own, but we don’t typically verbalize or act upon any of our ridiculousness. As a pair both of those impulses are actively engaged. Which makes it clearly insane that I am getting married tomorrow, and Gina is captain in charge of making sure I get married.
We have not trashed the hotel room yet, but I believe that option to still be in the cards.
We are, after all, rock stars.
(As to where I’ve been: I was really sick. A week before my wedding. It wasn’t fun. And I got a chest x-ray. That’s about all that needs to be said.)