by Amy Mullis
So, what’s the best of fun that summer has to offer?
Theatrical entertainment is for the weak.
The ideal summer activity is planning an outdoor wedding. In July. In the South. At the height of the season. Kudzu season. Red mud season. Anybody outside boils like an egg in ten minutes season. And just to even the odds for the mosquitoes, let’s make it for the afternoon when the guests are too hot to swat.
July is also tops for sudden afternoon thunderstorms, tornadoes, and wandering bouts of hail. But there’s not a natural disaster in the arsenal that can compare to a July Bride who can’t wiggle into her dress because sweat stains have created speed bumps in the satin.
14 years ago on July 12, I considered all the options and decided it was the perfect time to marry the Captain. There was a time I thought sticking my hand in a frightened dog’s mouth was a good idea too, but hopefully this plan wouldn’t come back to bite me. Or require stitches.
Luckily I had sisters to help with the preparations, because the bulk of wedding planning always falls on the bride. All the groom had to do was change jobs, pack up all his belongings, leave his friends behind, and move to another state. At least he didn’t have to find a size 12 dress that was cut like a 14. And shoes to match. In the days when pantyhose still ruled the thighs.
Talk about super powers. The Green Lantern’s got nothing on a bride who has six weeks to plan the wedding of the certifiable, find a dress that doesn’t make her look like a dead ringer for the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and pumps that won’t leave her heels down in the cucumbers when she strolls out the back door and past the weedeater to get married in the shade of her Daddy’s historic “Does anybody know what that huge tree is?” (Note to self: don’t stand under a nest unless your dress blends with bird poop.) And it would take more than Wonder Woman’s magic tiara to keep her hair from turning into a sea sponge when the humidity tops out at water skiing levels.
Superman thought he had it bad with the blue tights and the day job. The Captain should count himself lucky. At least he didn’t have to hoist me over his shoulder to fly off on our honeymoon, a move which could bring his insurance deductible into play and threaten any rigorous honeymoon activities.
All he had to do was pay.
Join Amy, the Captain, and the baggage they’ve collected in fourteen years of marital baloney at Mind Over Mullis. Remember, do not try this at home. You, too, could end up with kids, Labradors, and bad hair!