My good friends got married last April in St. Louis. Because it was an out-of-town wedding and I did not like any man in my life enough to commit to spending almost three days straight with him, I chose to go as a party of one. My other friend did the same.
The wedding was a blast. I met people that will surely be lifelong friends and, most likely, be part of the wedding party at my own wedding.
I also exaggerate.
I seriously made some best friends for that night, though, for sure … but have yet to talk to them again.
The wedded couple had set up an area during the reception to take pictures with fun accessories and costumes. This included mustaches.
One guess where I spent most of my time at the wedding.
At one point, while wearing a purple wig and some crazy gloves, I posed with an elderly gentleman who wore a Navy hat. I may or may not have attempted to act like an Asian hooker. One of the bridesmaids came over and curiously asked me, “You know that’s my Dad, right?” She looked none too pleased.
I figured this silver fox was someone’s Dad! After that, I chose to re-enact my WWII days with men who didn’t have children in attendance at the wedding. Five dolla make you holla? Five cent? High five?
Are you breathing?
Fine, I get it. You’re not interested. You can stop playing dead now. Really.
When the reception ended, a group of us headed to the nearest bar. I recall lots of shots. And then more shots. To say this part of the night got hazy would be an understatement.
One of the groom’s friends in attendance was known as Scotty Bad Ass. He had a bowl haircut and was wearing a short-sleeved, button-down shirt with a tie. I can’t exactly recall why he was nicknamed Scotty Bad Ass, but it most likely had something to do with setting himself on fire or diving face first off a roof.
At one point, another groomsman pointed out how cute we were and that we should probably kiss. I obliged. Then, apparently announced to the group in surprise, “Wow, that was better than I was expecting.” Way to go with the compliments, Leigh.
After the bar, a few of us found our way to the local casino. Not being much of a gambler, I bellied up to the bar and befriended a man in his 80s who claimed to be the Cardinals No. 1 fan. He also nicknamed me Miss America, claiming I was the prettiest girl in the casino. Regardless of the fact that he was legally blind and I was the only girl in the casino, he became my new favorite person. I, of course, did not leave his side for at least an hour.
As night crept toward morning and I started to sober up, I decided it was time to head back to the hotel. Fortunately, Scotty Bad Ass was also ready to leave. We decided to take a detour to a local 24-hour diner to get some breakfast. As we ate and got to know one another, I realized he was a genuinely nice person and I was rather enjoying our conversation.
He asked me what nationality I was and I responded by asking him to guess. He studied my face. “I don’t know…Indian?”
“Indian?” I said. “Like from India?” This was a first.
“No!” he explained, as if I was the stupidest person on the planet. “Like, Navajo.”
I’ve never been called Indian of any sort, especially of the Native American variety. This tickled my fancy and I began to giggle uncontrollably. “What makes you think I’m American Indian?” I asked, puzzled. He looked me over and replied, “Well, you have dark hair, so….”
Dark hair. I see. Alrighty then.
Poor Scotty Bad Ass was supposed to be up early farming that day, but was too drunk to drive home. He also had not gotten a room for the night. I said he could crash in our room. Unfortunately, there was only one King size bed in the room. My friend said to me, half asleep, “Please don’t have sex while I’m in the bed.”
What kind of person does she think I am????
I instructed him to not touch me and immediately passed out sandwiched between him and my friend. He slept on his back, refusing to take his tie off and keeping his hands in his pockets THE WHOLE NIGHT. He did not appear to be very comfortable.
I apparently had scared him by telling him if he touched me I’d scalp him.
We Indians mean business.
I guess there are no hard and fast rules here. I just think it’s a hilarious story.
I later came to find out that Scotty Bad Ass was apparently infatuated with all things Native American and often spent his extra money buying artifacts and other Native American replica.
So I’ll take it as a compliment he thought I was Native American, even though I know he was just hoping so he could ask me to marry him on the spot.