When southern girls get married

I realize that there are probably weddings in Oregon that look and feel like southern weddings. I’m guessing that they’re for rich people whose families have ties to the East Coast - but I don't know a lot of those people. I’ve been to probably a dozen weddings since I turned 18. I've attended everything from a quick wedding for two 18-year-olds (graduating the next day) who rented the local Moose Hall and had their aunts hang some paper streamers to a $30K+ affair with late night dancing, gorgeous flowers, fancy cocktail dresses and passed finger food.

I’ve only been to one southern wedding.

However, I first suspected that some things about weddings would be different when, shortly after arriving in South Carolina, my boyfriend’s stepmother, I guess in an effort to gauge the seriousness of our relationship, asked if we’d picked out a china pattern.

“Um, no,” I stammered. “Do people … still do that? People my age?”

She laughed and said that maybe she was just old-fashioned.

But the southern bride whose wedding I just attended, she’s not old-fashioned. Modern girl, this one. And she picked out formal china, informal china, Christmas china and FORMAL Christmas china.

Touché.

Also, the southern wedding I recently attended took place in a church. I have not been to a church wedding since I was a kid – I know they still happen, but I do believe they’re more rare than the ballroom, or outdoor park, or wedding venue style-affairs that are de rigueur out west.

Unfortunately, my date and I arrived only 10 minutes early for the wedding, something I hadn’t intended (my beau’s wardrobe malfunction [read: lack of planning when it came to ironing] was to blame), but I still thought would be OK. But no. The chapel was full so we were put in the overflow room with the other derelict guests. There was a big screen TV with a live video feed from the chapel. This is another thing I’ve never seen before.

But when the video feed went out, the other guests looked around and agreed it was time to hit the bar, I realized that there is at least one important nuptial factor that is universal from coast to coast: booze.

Thank baby Jesus.

The level of formality is another factor that is different from Oregon. This is something I anticipated. See, in the entire state of Oregon, there are probably two restaurants where you can’t wear jeans. And if you’re the governor of the state, you can wear jeans anywhere you damn well please. Not the case here. Example: A Southern girlfriend of mine believes that male guests at a wedding that is held at 6 p.m. or later should wear tuxedos.

Yeah.

So, my beau and I had some trouble figuring out what to wear – mostly because we’re poor, but also because he spent the last decade working in the outdoors, so he doesn’t own a tie. Me, I pretty much only own dress-up clothes that could be seen as too loud/quirky for southern affairs (I had to be talked out of wearing a short black dress and hot pink tights to the wedding and I’m still kind of miffed about it). Also, my fancy clothes just aren't fancy by southern standards. I do not own a single sequin. I don't really do sparkles. Or bows.

We figured it out, but we ended up looking dowdier than  most of the other guests. No big deal, as far as I'm concerned.

But this is all leading up to my proclamation. In my view, the 2 best things about southern weddings:

1. *Seersucker suits with bowties. There were dozens of them, on everyone from little boys (!) to grown men. I will admit that, unfortunately, I didn't see any of the older gents wearing them, so suspect they could be trend that I just hadn't been exposed to before.

*I do know some folks just see the seersucker thing as an affectation. Some sort of old-money, stodgy ... really, I don't know. I haven't been here long enough to understand the intricacies of Southern affectations. Regardless, I find boys in seersucker and bowties adorable and charming. If I still worked at a newspaper this post would be headlined "A sucker for seersucker." Or some such thing.

2. The electric slide.

Now, I don’t do the electric slide. I learned it at some point, but I’m terrible at remembering dances that require specific moves at specific times. But southern ladies like their electric slide. And we're all the better for it.

On swimming

It's hot, y'all.

I warned you there would be a lot of complaining about the heat, right? Because it's HOT. Like, really, really hot. All the time. And muggy. So very, very muggy.

And here's one thing that pisses me off about this. Everyone told me all this humidity would be great for my skin. I expected to glow. So why do I have scaly patches spreading across my face? Oh, right. Because it's too frigging hot to go outside and soak up the humidity.

I spent one night at my friends place at the south end of the beach (farther away from me but, from what I understand, slightly preferred to the resorty madness in Myrtle Beach). We did make it to the beach. It was nice. Stiff salt breeze, hilarious people watching of mahogany-colored blond girls who will doubtless end up looking like old luggage one day. Waves. Honestly, if I lived near the beach, I imagine I'd go there with some regularity. And since I wear sunscreen, my dry lizard skin might go away. But a) I don't live near the beach and b) have I mentioned that I'm kind of afraid of swimming in the ocean?

It's not that I'm not a swimmer. I love swimming. I was on a swim team for awhile when I was a kid, and I actually would have been good if I'd had a drop of competitive spirit in my blood (I've since developed that drive, but not related to physical pursuits. For the only race I've ever participated in, a half marathon, my only goal was finishing. I don't even like competitive ping-pong. But get me on a monopoly board and I will make you my bitch - or pout when I lose).

It's not that I fear swimming in natural bodies of water, necessarily. I grew up swimming in rivers and lakes. I have very distinct memories of swimming in the Santiam River with my sister when I was a kid. There was one swift channel that the little kids were too scared to swim across, and I remember with pride the first time I made it. I was finally big enough to hang with my big sister and the older cousins on the far bank. My older cousins were awesome.

However, where I'm from, you do not swim in the ocean. First of all, it's cold. Year-round. Frigid. Numbing. There's also the fact that there's usually a giant, terrifying break far away, dangerous riptides, something called a sneaker wave, and great white sharks. But really, it's the cold. When you're a kid, you wade in until the water comes up to maybe your hips, you laugh and splash for about five minutes, daring your sister to go out a little father, then your feet turn blue so you return to your sandcastle. Before long, it's off to Moe's for some chowder. And that's if it's not raining on the day you make it to the beach, which it usually is, year-round.

My first experience swimming in the ocean was in Mexico when I was in my early 20s. I didn't know that when a wave was coming for your head you were supposed to dive under it, so I just closed my eyes and got knocked into the sand. When I recovered, my top was around my neck and my sunglasses were floating toward my boyfriend's dad. Sweet.

Plus. Jellyfish. Ugh.

While explaining the ins and outs and complications relating to my many excuses for taking constant shelter in the loving, frigid arms of central air, a friend asked me why I don't go swimming in the river near my house.

That's fucking hilarious.

Here's an illustrative anecdote: Roomie and I recently tried to take an early morning kayak trip on the Waccamaw River. Not only was it 90 degrees by 9 am, but the river is largely swamp. So, you know, gross. And the parts that aren't totally swampy are still blackwater. As in, the color of black tea. I know I've covered this, but it bears repeating. The Santiam, when you stand above it, is green, but when you're in the water, it's clear. You can't see your own boobs in blackwater. In the Santiam, or the Deschutes, you can watch trout swimming by. You can check out the periwinkles nestled in the rocks.

I hope the "where I come from" rant hasn't gotten old, but if you haven't been, have you at least seen pictures of Oregon? Just google Crater Lake. I'll give you a sec. Or, another of my favorites, Clear Lake. Crystal clear mountain runoff, kids. This is what I'm used to.

And the thing is, no one can say that there's nothing to fear in the blackwater! Snakes! Venemous ones! Vicious biting turtles! Fucking alligators! No, for real. We had to turn around on our little kayak outing last weekend when we saw a 6-footer ahead of us.

I'm not sure what to do except whine, moisturize, and wait for autumn. I'll be the one sitting inside with the blinds drawn, dreaming of scarves, sweaters, boots, and pumpkin pies.