Off to Charleston

Tomorrow morning, I leave for Charleston. My childhood friend Marc is getting married. I cannot wait to meet the victim, er. . . bride. Marc and his brother, Pierce, and my sister and I go way back; Our moms were best friends growing up in Chattanooga. We vacationed in Destin with them for years, visited them at their home and on their Grandfather's ranch near Dallas, and when Pierce went to school in Chattanooga, I used to see him and his roommate when I was in town visiting my Grandma. We all exchanged emails recently, and Pierce's roommate was saying how nice it would be to see me again. The last time he remembers seeing me, I "drove a convertible and had bought the Drivin' and Cryin' album that day." We figured out that was about 1988. Yeah, nineteen years. Wow.

Marc is the last of us to get married. Pierce and I both have kids now, and Lisa is expecting. None of this adulthood crap matters much, because these are people who have known me long enough to remember me before I became the woman of grace and loveliness that I am today; They saw the gangly, pimpled girl with the sausage-rolled hair. They knew me when I had no boobs. They knew me when I liked Whitesnake.

It is going to be fun to have all four of us back together again this weekend, even though I won't have them to myself. There will be merciless ribbing, and much, much laughter. And a whole lotta drinking. Look out, Charleston.