I call Shotgun! Part 4: My High School Friend’s Wedding in Carmel

The outdoor ceremony was mercifully brief, since the bride wore a short cotton spaghetti strap dress on a misty 60 degree afternoon and was shivering. At least she said she was shivering, and not shaking with nerves, but I suspect a bit of both. Even I was shaking with nerves for her, though I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing the first wedding of one of my friends from highschool – it was surreal. I’ve known this girl since we were 14, and now, ten years later, I’m seeing her make vows to someone on a cliff overlooking the freezing, gray Pacific ocean. They rented a private home with an incredible view, and the house itself was large and cabin-like, with an outdoor fire pit around which we sat, joked and talked until night.

We toasted the couple over a delicious dinner her mother made –there were only fourteen of us total—and toasted marshmallows, between the men adding heaping towers of logs to the already blazing fire. Men really like fire pits, and burning the hair on their knuckles trying to add logs while making highly theatrical faces of pain became the macho sport of the evening. In times like this I am especially proud to be with my boyfriend, who succumbed to the temptation to thrust his hands into the inferno only once, and when he found that the fire was indeed hot, returned his attention to his beer. Yes, I have truly found a gem.
Around 9:30pm, we were exhausted from socializing, as much fun as it was to visit with my friend and her family. She led the way down the steep and very dark stone staircase to the parking lot, and I followed. But the stairs were uneven and I was in heels, which caused me to misstep and topple onto the bride.

Thank goodness I caught myself before landing my full weight on her or she would have been a pancake. My left shoe felt a bit slippery, but fortunately the darkness hid the extent of my wound. I brushed it off as a chipped toenail, said a quick goodbye, and got into the car to investigate the damage. One half of my big toenail still lies somewhere on that staircase. I’ll skip over the blood gushing parts and say that I held it together extremely well. Charles whipped out his first aid kit and found a band-aid that would work until we made it to the nearest drug store (thank goodness he brought his GPS), and then he bought enough bandages and Bactine to dress a severed leg. Thus ended Sunday.

I wrapped up my toe, went to bed, and woke up every time I wanted to roll over, afraid lest even a sheet brush against my injury. In the morning, I put off wearing shoes as long as possible. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad, and I managed to wear the heels of the night before (they were open toe, and tennis shoes were my only other option). I hobbled up and down Ocean Avenue, leaning on Charles’ arm, determined to see the town.