Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Here I am, back from Iowa. I had a lovely time. The Actually drove down on Thursday, and my mother and I followed Friday afternoon. We eschewed the interstate in favor of a more scenic route, which took us through an assortment of small and occasionally creepy towns. For instance, one wee hamlet, the name of which I cannot remember (Lyle, maybe?) had only a sprinkling of houses but two vast cemeteries FULL of graves. And when I say full, I mean there were practically corpses tumbling onto the road. And yet, as I mentioned, very few houses for living people. Something sinister is going on in that town, I promise you.
We arrived safely at our destination, a large mysterious building where my Nearly-In-Laws had gathered for The Surprise…which turned out to be a group dancing lesson. The lesson was taught by a grinning, manic little woman with dyed red hair and lipstick the color of freshly spilled blood. Surprisingly, it was the most enjoyable hour I have spent, oh, ever. For one thing, I am an excellent dancer. I have been known to make grown men cry with my fantastic sense of rhythm, and the only thing I enjoy more than dancing is eating macaroni and cheese, so that right there should tell you that I am passionate about The Dance, as I like to call it. The redheaded instructress used me to demonstrate the moves to everyone else, and I heard people speculating in the background how I knew the steps, and whether I had done this before. Of course I hadn’t done it before, I am JUST THAT GOOD.*
The Actually and I enjoyed ourselves so much that we are taking dance lessons on our own, starting this Saturday. You can laugh at us, if you like, but we’ll see who’s laughing when I rhumba my way to fame and fortune.

My mother and I stayed in the nicest hotel room I have ever seen, with a bathtub I would have sold my right breast to own. I took four baths in the two nights we stayed there, and snapped several pictures of the tub so that I can have one blown up and put above my bed at home.
The bridal shower itself was overwhelming—I couldn’t believe the time my NMIL and her sisters had put into it. There were decorations, and mimosas, and a room full of women I had never met giving me plates and hand mixers. I was astounded by their kindness. The last time there was a real party in my honor I was eight, and it was my birthday, and I may or may not have been wearing a pumpkin costume. And did I mention that when I arrived at the hotel there was a huge basket full of chocolate and wine and bubble bath and People magazine waiting for me? It was tied up with ribbons in my wedding colors, all courtesy of my Nearly-In-Laws. I started to cry when I saw it—Alcohol! Candy! Britney in Rehab! I didn’t know people did things like that outside of the movies.

On our last night my mother and I ordered a split of champagne, and room service gave us a full-sized bottle instead, for the same price—which pretty much sums up my weekend, right there. I spent Friday night dancing to “Fly Me to the Moon” with my beloved, Saturday afternoon being pampered by strangers, and Saturday night drinking a glass of free champagne in a bathtub designed by God. And then I came home, entered everything I had eaten into my Weight Watchers tracker, trembled when I saw that I had used all my flex points in three days, and trepidatiously weighed myself to see how much I had gained.
I lost a pound. Someone pinch me, please–I think I just saw a unicorn gallop by.

*In the interest of full disclosure I feel compelled to admit that during a tricky turn, my feet flew out from under me and I landed with my legs in the air, but that was solely the fault of my shoes and the slippery dance floor (just a lawsuit waiting to happen, if you ask me).