the district.

This past weekend, I ventured out to Washington, D.C. to witness one of my sisters join her soulmate in that most hallowed union of marriage (the oldest one, got hitched a few years ago).  Whenever anyone gets to know them, talks to them, or even looks at them, they will understand these two people are two halves of the same whole.  Simply put, they make sense. 

From the moment I landed in Baltimore Washington International, the entire “wedding process” was a complete blur.  If it weren’t for the photographers (who were—to put it plainly—superb), I sincerely doubt I’d remember much of the whole experience, save for a few standout happenings scattered throughout the weekend.  True, I was considerably inebriated during the festivities, but I believe my confusion lent itself more to the notion that time truly does fly when you’re having fun.  

But now, after a few days’ time has given me the chance to fully digest the weekend’s goings-on, I feel that my thoughts and feelings about everything can begin to at least crystallize, if nothing else.  While my thoughts are clear and coherent, they will never be organized, and as such, that’s how I shall present them:  

• The streets in the D.C. area suck.  According to my brand-spanking-new brother-in-law, the streets of Washington, D.C. were designed in such a precarious fashion so as to confuse invading armies.  As a result, said armies burned down the city.  I find this particular nugget of knowledge fascinating, seeing as how after roughly 5 days of driving around the D.C. area, I too, have the sincerest of desires to raze our nation’s capital to the ground.  What sense is there in intersecting a perfectly organized grid of roads and streets with diagonal avenues?  And to make matters worse, there are what seem like randomly placed roundabouts thrown into the mix.  Of all the civic blunders I’ve encountered in my existence, I find the roundabout to be the most useless.  Pierre Charles L’Enfant, you, dear sir, are a jerk.
• I would say that “Pretty Wings” by Maxwell was the theme song for the weekend, given that it played every time I started the car.  But every time I was behind the wheel of that car, driving around D.C., I was thinking of nothing pretty.  Only torturing Mr. L’Enfant for subjecting Jill (the kind lady in my GPS) to such inhumane punishment.  
• People in the Maryland, D.C., Virginia area are surprisingly polite.  I was at first surprised at this.  I’m from the South.  And as hackneyed as it may seem, I do buy into the concepts of Southern Hospitality and Southern Gentlemen.  I suppose it’s just the way we’re raised.  But when I’ve been out to the West Coast, the general demeanor of people out there is somewhere less than sunny.  The same could be said for the Northeast, but they seem to take offense to my Southern Civilities.  A prime example: opening the door for others.  Here in the beautiful, comfortable South, I’ve opened doors for a plethora of people, and the results have usually been some permutation of the following three:  A notion of appreciation; someone simply walking through, as though they expected me to open the door for them (as they should… it’s the South); or the other person standing in the doorway motioning for me to walk through first in an attempt to “out gentleman” me (as if I would let that happen).  On the West Coast, however, I’ve received some surprised looks that border on shock.  Perhaps these people thought I would try to strangle them from behind or accost them in some manner if they walked through the door before me.  My experiences in the Northeast were even worse.  People’s reactions made me feel as if I had offended them somehow.  Really?  You don’t think I’m capable of opening the door for myself?  How dare you!  I distinctly recall one young whippersnapper looking at me briefly with his eyes bugged out, then scoffing as he strode through the entryway in front of me.  Such a sad state of affairs.  In the D.C., MD, VA area I expected more of the same, but was pleasantly surprised.  Not only were folks over there appreciative of my simple gesture, I was extended the same courtesy on many occasions.  And it wasn’t just from the hotel doormen!  I was startled by this discovery at first, but after some research, it turns out the D.C., MD, VA area is south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Go figure.  
• A short skirt is a dangerous thing.  Especially if you don’t know whether the party next door is a high school homecoming or a university’s winter banquet.  Not that I don’t appreciate the effort.  Further, did they really wear those to the wedding?  Didn’t anyone tell them it was in a church?  Speaking of which…  
• The credo, ‘all things in moderation’ never holds more true than during a wedding, save for a few exceptions.  You can eat too much filet mignon, no matter how well-prepared it may be.  You can never take too many pictures.  You can, however, make the same ‘funny face’ in pictures too many times.  You can say too many things during a speech, but you can never express too much love and emotion during that speech.  You can play the same type of song too much.  Switching back and forth between Lil Wayne and the Black Eyed Peas is a lateral move.  But you can never have too many line dances.  Ever.  But above all else, regardless of what you may think of your own constitution, you can have too much to drink.  Especially when there are two open bars.   
• A sense of family is the one constant in life.  I say a sense of family because some people I know were never close to their families.  But as they put it, “friends are the family you choose.”  This past weekend, I’ve seen the concept of family persevere over and over again, without fail.  Familial love is what helps one sister support another through the biggest day of her life.  It pulls together distant relatives like old friends who get into the same patter of conversation, antics, and general tomfoolery.  It validates your crazy.  That sense of family cuts through apathy and pointless bickering and differences of opinion.  It makes up those last few inches necessary to bridge the gap between parents and their children.  And I have seen more so than anything, that family is what can save you at the end of the day.  If you invest in your family (they’re the ones that have to love you regardless of how angry you make them) the return on that investment is incomprehensible–it makes you more human.  

And that was D.C. for me.  There were millions more memories than what I’ve been able to transcribe here.  But to try and capture the sheer exuberance of the weekend and condense that into words would only dilute the happiness those memories brought me.  Even sharing the above random thoughts with you was a painstaking effort.  But in the end, the highs (which were abundant) and the lows (which were pleasingly scant, if they even occurred) coalesced into what I can only describe as one of those beautiful moments in life that you etch into your heart and recall many years later with a deep fondness.   

So many things go wrong.  So many plans fall through.  So many people take our faith and end up failing us.  It’s nice that some things live up to the hype.

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