Medicinal Pizza

I am delighted with my daughter's marriage.  Really.  But you have to admit that it's a traumatic experience.

I think I had been pretty cool about it, in other words, totally denying that it was at all traumatic.  But one has to admit that even if one is delighted with one's daughter's choice of spouse and feels totally included in the celebration, there are meanings that go beyond any of the wonderful things that a wedding may symbolize.

For one thing, when your first born weds, it means you are older.  It also means you are now the extended family.  There is what you might call a seismic shift (pardon my drama) in the makeup of the world.

I was really not that much in touch with the dramatic change for two reasons.  First, and let me just say this one more time, I was really totally happy with it.  Secondly, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it if I wasn't.

Oh, and the most obvious I guess is that my daughter had been living away from me as one half of a happy couple for some seven plus years now.  I figured I should definitely be over it by now.

But as I woke up that morning, and before I gained consciousness, I groaned, "Oh my god," scaring my sister nearly half to death.  "What's wrong?!" she asked as she leaped out of bed.  "My daughter's getting married today."

But then the day flew by as we all knew it would, and the wedding was awesome and the reception was definitely one of the best parties I had ever attended.  It was about 11:30, and for some time I had been aware that the two aunts and I were the only ones of our generation who were holding down that fort.  Much as I was enjoying the antics of the ever more drunken younger bunch, it was time to leave.  That, or tag along on the bar crawl at midnight.

Still doing fine, I left my newly inebriated son in the hands of the not-entirely-trustworthy new bride, and we three headed back to our hotel.

Once there, the elephant in the room (which had actually been a dinosaur at the Orpheum Children's Museum reception) could no longer be denied.

There was a hole in my heart that could only be filled by a pepperoni pizza.  "I need a pizza," I whined.  After I had said it a few more times, my sisters understood that not only did I need a pizza, I was incapable of actually accomplishing that goal myself.  So, as family does in times of crisis, they did the telephone book research, and took it in stride when I griped about plebian options like Papa Johns and Dominos, finally finding a nice local option that appeared to be open late.  And as loved ones will do when your heart is breaking, they even made the call.

And that pizza turned out to be exactly what I needed for my broken heart.