Well, At Least I Didn't Catch the Bouquet

Friday morning, my source at the City Hall subway stop told me the party was in Philly this past weekend.

Of course none of my friends could confirm this. No, they were either down the shore or sitting in air conditioning.

I was at a wedding in Pennsyltucky.

It was a lovely wedding, for all the reasons that everyone always lists. Oh, the bride was radiant, the groom so handsome, the flowers were gorgeous and the view of the golf course and surrounding valley at sunset, with a cool breeze blowing on a hot July evening was absolutely breathtaking.

And I really do mean all of that. But that is not why I thought it was lovely. I mean all of that was nice, but it paled in comparison to all the young, lovely men that were surrounding me. See, the groom was a rower, and all of his friends are rowers. And for those of you that don’t know, rowers make the most excellent wedding guests.

See, rowers are tall with broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin. They are born and bred to wear suits and look good doing it. And there I was, suddenly single and surrounded by young yummies. It was as if I was starring in my very own J. Crew spread.

But along with looking so good, Rowers have a tendency to be whores. Oh of course I don’t mean the groom. Or most any of the married rowers I know. Mostly I just mean the young and/or single ones.

So even as I breathed in all the young dudes, I smiled, knowing I was much too smart to fall for their charm.

That is, the radical feminist me that everyone at that wedding thought I was, smiled and ignored just how good they all looked. Real Tatiana, the same Tatiana that has fallen for their charms oh so many times before, worried and sweat. . .a lot.

Let’s fast forward to the reception. I knew a large number of the guests from my days on the water, but I hadn’t seen many of them since I moved out of the neighborhood (Fairmount then, East Falls now) and so, all of the conversations went a lot like this.

“Hey, Tatiana, you look great. Are you back in Philly?”

“No, well, yeah, no. I never left Philly. I’m still there.”

“I thought you moved.”

“Nope.”

“No, really I thought you moved out of the area.”

This is when I would purse my lips, shake my head and swallow some more wine.

But as tedious as all of this was, I welcomed the distraction from the really smoldering hot, tall, well-dressed rower in the corner that just looked like he was born to get me in trouble. This is the part that the real Tatiana worried about. The part where you mix a really hot rower with music and me, add alcohol and shake well.

The result is Radical Feminist Tatiana’s kryptonite.

It’s the reason why I am not allowed in Fairmount after midnight. No, I don’t turn into a pumpkin – it’s much worse. The next morning I find myself hailing a cab, sans my dignity and at least one item of my clothing.

Fortunately I made it back to Philly with my bra, underwear, dress and both my shoes and most of my dignity.

But what can I say, I hear Bon Jovi and I have to dance.

But back to the reason I didn’t jump across smokin’ hot rower’s table and sit on his face. It had less to do with my own resolve and more to do with a) his date; she looked like another rower and probably could kick my ass; and b) my best friend from college would catch my eye, every time I tried to catch his, to remind me what a really, really bad idea that would be.

And while I am glad I made it back with the matching lingerie I had just purchased; don’t think for a minute I haven’t thought about the big dumb animal almost every minute since.

I’ve tried not to. I know it is a really, really bad idea. But then I think this may be just what I need to celebrate the big 3-0. A himbo.