Jim lets out a cheer when he sees his mother-in-law practically running away from the bar and yells to the bartender for twenty shots of whiskey to go around.

“So really, Tee Time is just another excuse to get trashed at a wedding?” Carter asked.

“That would be correct,” I reply as I take the shot glass filled with amber liquid that is handed to me.  “Calling it Stupid Time would just be too obvious.”

“I guess since you’re drinking that means this gorgeous stud hasn’t impregnated you again,” my mother states as she takes her own.

“MOM!” I scold.

“What?  Can you blame me for wanting another grandchild?  You two make beautiful babies.  The man obviously has super sperm.  And by the looks of your late-night kitchen trysts, he still knows where to put it.”

Mortification, party of one, your table is now ready.

“Did I ever tell you about the boyfriend I had in college who thought blow jobs could cause pregnancy?  It’s a shame really.  I can suck a tennis ball through a crazy straw but he missed out.”

Shouldn’t there be some sort of law about people knowing these things about one of their parents?

My mother finally shuts up as Jim leads the group in a toast that consists of everyone raising their shot glasses, chanting “Tee Time, Tee Time, Tee Time!” before downing the whiskey.

Carter quickly learns the ins and the outs of Tee Time.  Basically, the person in charge (my mother) borrows the microphone from the DJ and announces when it’s Tee Time.  It starts off as being every twenty minutes.  After the first few rounds everyone quickly forgets just how far apart Tee Time is supposed to be.  Eventually, it’s every ten minutes, then every five minutes, and then there is someone puking in the middle of the dance floor and the bartender is out of a job because Tee Time attendance quickly jumped from twenty people to seventy-eight people and they’ve taken over the bar so they can pour the shots faster.

Every single wedding I have ever attended since I was three had a Tee Time.  And frankly, even some of the funerals adopted the same tradition since honoring the dead can only be accomplished with adults sitting by the casket snort-laughing and loudly discussing how they think they just saw the body move.

Two hours after the first Tee Time, I plant my ass down at one of the tables, slide off my heels, and prop my feet up on a chair so I can watch Carter, Jim, and Drew attempt to break dance to a Celine Dion song.  Drew has long since shed his tuxedo coat and white dress shirt, not really caring who sees the tee shirt he wore underneath that says “I’m not the groom, but I’ll let you put a ring on it” with a picture of a cock ring below the words.  I watch Carter attempt to do the Running Man, unable to stop the huge grin that spreads across my face.

“Good thing I caught you in a good mood,” Liz states as she suddenly appears next to my chair and grabs my hand, pulling me up and out of my seat.  “Get your ass up.  It’s bouquet-toss time.”

I let go of her hand and sit right back down.

“Nice try,” I say with a chuckle.

Liz moves to stand right in front of me with her hands on her hips and glares down at me.

“Don’t you give me that look,” I threaten.  “I am not standing out there in the middle of the dance floor pretending like I give a rat’s ass whether or not I catch your stupid bouquet.”

All around us, single women are shoving people out of the way to make it up to the dance floor in the hopes they will be the chosen one:  the woman deemed worthy enough and loved enough to be the next one to walk down the aisle.  It doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend or not.  If that bouquet filled with all of the good luck from the recently married woman arcs through the air in your direction, you are as good as wed in the eyes of everyone around you.

Even if I don’t really believe in that whole thing about how if you catch the bouquet you’ll be the next person to get married, I'm still not taking any chances.  I had learned early on that I'm probably not a good candidate for marriage.  I don’t really have shining examples of success in that area.  My parents have five marriages between the two of them.  I share the same genes as people that stayed married because the healthcare was cheaper. And also because the one time they had made an appointment with a lawyer, eight years ago, my mother got a flat tire on the way there.  She still claims it was a sign from a higher power that they shouldn’t get divorced.  Something about “If you love something you shouldn’t set it free or you’ll get down to brass tacks in your tire.”

I won’t admit to anyone that I’ve been secretly wondering what it would be like to be married to Carter.  Frankly, I shouldn’t even be thinking it or lightening will strike and ruin everything.  Our life is perfect just the way it is.  A few stray thoughts here and there about what it would be like to sign the name Mrs. Claire Ellis doesn’t mean anything.  It just means that every once in a while I can act like a typical girl.  It doesn’t mean I have any desire to don a white dress and parade myself in front of hundreds of people whose only thought about me at that moment in time is whether or not it's appropriate for me to be wearing white.

And besides, men run for the hills as soon as you get the tiniest inkling you might want to someday be married to them.  If you so much as glance in the general direction of a bridal magazine in the store, they start hyperventilating and imagining balls and chains permanently secured to their legs for all of eternity.  Really, I'm doing this for Carter.  I'm saving him from a coronary or some other life threatening illness that comes from thinking about marriage.  I think I read somewhere that just saying the word marriage makes a man’s balls shrink.  It must have been Google.

Before I know what was happening, both Jenny and Liz are dragging me onto the dance floor amid hordes of women who are foaming at the mouth and practically punting away young children who ran from their parents to join in on the game of catch.

Once I'm firmly ensconced by giddy, annoying females on all sides, Liz turns and flees the scene.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!  I hope I catch the flowers!  What if I catch the flowers?  Could you imagine?!  We should move closer to the front.  Or maybe go to the back.  Can Liz throw really far?  I hope they don’t get stuck in one of the chandeliers.”

I cross my arms in front of me in protest and roll my eyes as Jenny’s incessant chatter rings in my ears like an annoying cow bell.

“These parents need to come out here and get their kids.  What happens if one of them catches the bouquet?  Will someone tell them to give it back?  This is like, a really important thing.  They’re not opposed to be out here.”

I sighed and scan the crowd looking for Carter, hoping to get a smile of encouragement from him to brave this storm.  He would feel my pain and know how miserable I am in this moment, surrounded by crazies.

As my eyes move through the sea of people standing around watching, Liz is handed the microphone and with her back to the single women, she begins her countdown.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

Finally, my eyes lock on Carter standing not far from Liz.  The corners of my mouth begin curling up when a sudden blur of activity around me causes my focus to wane.  Heels are flying, taffeta is swirling, and women are going down like dominoes.  I unfold my arms to move away from the chaos when the bouquet Liz throws drops down into my hands like a gift from the heavens.

All movement on the floor around me stops and the pile of wrestling women stare up at me with reverence like I hold the Holy Grail in my palms.  I have the strongest urge to spike it to the ground like a football and get as far away from it as possible.