My wife Staci made me go to another wedding. This time for one of her cousins. She has destroyed my summer with these time-sucking monstrosities.
This one was at a golf course. Under a gazebo. A hundred feet to the right was a driving range filled with middle-aged guys shanking ball after ball.
I thought that was interesting.
Under the gazebo was one man pledging his everlasting love to his wife. To his left were twenty trying to escape theirs.
On the other side of the gazebo was a lake. A male and female mallard floated on its edge. The male waddled up on shore to watch the proceedings. Added to the golfers, that made twenty-one males escaping their wives.
Adding to the horror was a harpist. Every wedding we’ve attended this summer has had a harpist.
I don’t know about you, but I have never bought an album of harp music. Nor have I ever had someone hand me a CD and say, “Dude, you gotta hear this. It’s got some great harp.” There’s a reason for that. Nobody likes them.
Harps are the only instrument that even when played at their best sound like something you’d hear in an elevator.
I don’t know who first associated harps with heaven. They should not be. They are the work of the devil. They belong in hell. Or at least purgatory.
Which is pretty close to where I was that hot day sitting between the golfers and the ducks.
So I tried to get my son Tom to look over at the harp. Not so he would take an interest in it. But so I could stick my wet finger in his ear. Which I did. Causing Staci to hit my hand.
“Stop,” she said, “You’re at a wedding. Seriously.”
She was right. I had to stop. Stop sitting so close to her.
So I scooted my chair six inches out of her range and stuck my finger in Tom’s ear again.
She swung her hand. And missed.
I had escaped my wife.
That made twenty-two of us.