The Paralegal's Big Fat Freak Wedding

I’ve always had a reflexive opposition to connecting in a human way with the other people at my firm. Put it this way: one of my most vivid summer associate memories is the crippling existential terror that overcame me at the cocktail party the firm threw to welcome us. That evening, the voice inside my head started asking “Who are these people?” so loudly I was afraid it was actually audible. As a result, I adhere to a policy of diligent avoidance when it comes to non-essential extracurricular social contact with partners, associates and staff. So I was pretty surprised a couple of months ago when I received a wedding invitation from this litigation paralegal that I work with all the time. I shoved the invitation into a junk drawer and made a mental note to remember to send my regrets before the RSVP date. But of course I forgot. Thanks to my rude forgetfulness, the paralegal was forced to ask me to my face if I was attending. I was so startled and embarrassed that I broke my own rule and said yes.

Obviously, I was not at all excited about this wedding. I mean, this paralegal is pretty freaking weird. I have no idea how old she is (she’s one of those whose looks and personality present equally-strong indications that she could be either 23 or 43 years old), and she gives off a really potent “I’d rather be at a Renaissance Festival” vibe.

The wedding was this past Saturday, and all signs were pointing to a night that would fall somewhere on the spectrum between uncomfortably strange and surreal freak show. The other firm folk who would be attending included a young, nerdy litigation partner (I sometimes call him Extremely Slow and Terribly Close due to his conversational tendencies) who tries way too hard to come off as cool, rich and sophisticated, along with his histrionic wife (whose personality fluctuates between silent and mean, depending on how fat she feels); a 22 year-old southside girl who works in the firm’s hospitality department; and a senior litigation associate who gives off the impression that he spends most of his free time playing Magick: The Gathering and/or dry humping his living room couch while staring at pictures of sexy gelflings.

On Saturday evening, I called a cab to take me to the wedding. When I read the address on the invitation to the driver, he made me repeat it and said “Really? Are you sure?” I understood why when we arrived. The banquet center was nestled in a desolate strip between a payday loan storefront and a cash for gold shop. Weirder still was the fact that the scene in the parking lot looked like a Myrtle Beach Bike Rally—there were about 20 leather-clad biker types tailgating the wedding. I carefully avoided eye contact as I made my way inside, then seated myself in the third-to-last row and passed the time by staring at the other guests, most of whom were in jeans. In fact, only a handful looked like they had consciously dressed up: a guy who was the spitting image of Lou Diamond Phillips’ character in Stand and Deliver, two women wearing crushed velvet gowns, and an enormous bald man with a goatee in a wrinkly suit who kept his sunglasses on the entire night.

The ceremony started a few minutes later. The groom entered the room, and as he made his way to the makeshift altar—adorned with fake flowers and festively lit with blue bulbs that I’m pretty certain were doing double duty as insect repellants—one of the bikers yelled “Good luck!” and the groom snickered loud enough for the whole room to hear. Then an instrumental version of Stairway to Heaven started blaring, followed by a grotesque parade of sixteen bridesmaids in shiny teal dresses and stiff, bedazzled French twists, alongside oafish groomsmen in tuxes with teal vests.

I was sure it couldn’t possibly get any worse. At least, that’s what I thought before the bridal processional started playing—Paradise City by Guns ‘n Roses. I think I blacked out from shock at that point, because I don’t recall much else from the ceremony.

Next came the reception. I reluctantly found my seat at the table reserved for guests from the firm, all the while racking my brain for inventive, discreet ways to flee. The DJ announced that it was “officially” time to get the party started and proceeded to kick things off by playing Love Shack. We immediately headed to the bar, where I said a silent prayer of thanks when I discovered it wasn’t a cash bar—though my gratitude was tempered somewhat by the fact that Franzia boxed wine and cans of Busch Light were the only alcoholic options. I grabbed three cans of beer and started counting down the minutes until I could leave without offending anyone.

Back at my table, things were going as awkwardly as I expected. Nerdy partner was stumbling through a pointless monologue about the distinctions he finds most important among the leading luxury car brands, and histrionic wife was frowning and self-consciously adjusting the way-too-plunging neckline of her expensive cocktail dress. Hospitality girl was in the midst of a loud argument with her boyfriend (I eavesdropped for a minute but then lost interest when I realized that the topic of their vehement debate was whether or not Big Buck Hunter was “more awesome” and “required more skill” than Golden Tee), and senior associate was openly ogling the two crushed velvet-clad women.

But then something miraculous happened. In a desperate panic for anything that could occupy my time and nervous energy, I reached for the favor in front of my place setting—a tiny glass goblet full of teal M&Ms—and started devouring them. In less than a minute the M&Ms were gone, so I picked up the tiny glass and pretended to examine it. All of a sudden, the lightbulb went off: we had an endless supply of Busch Light, a bunch of tiny glasses, time to kill and an urgent need to immediately get as wasted as possible. What, then, is the only reasonable thing to do, given those circumstances? A power hour! Of course.

I knew it wouldn’t be hard to convince hospitality girl and her bf to join in the power hour (after all, they’re southsiders), and I figured that five seconds of flirtatious persuasion would suffice for senior associate (I was right). The only real wild cards were nerdy partner and histrionic wife, but as fate would have it, they both immediately assented to the idea because, “We hate beer—especially warm beer—and that’s really the only palatable way to get it down quickly.”

And so it began. Every single one of us fully committed to that power hour, and because of it, we had a blast. We took a night that had an awful lot in common with Altamont and transformed it into the best night ever. Thanks to the power hour, the Busch Light cans started piling up so fast that we fashioned an infinity symbol out of them around the centerpiece on our table, and we kept getting more and more giddy and high-spirited (not to mention stinking drunk). We shouted with laughter and clapped enthusiastically when six of the bridesmaids and three of the groomsmen took turns giving absolutely awful, inane toasts. We got choked up with genuine sentiment during the joint Father-Daughter/Mother-Son dance to Sweet Child of Mine, and we cackled with glee and offered one another approving fist pounds when the bride and groom did their first dance to Prince’s Pussy Control.

As a result of our fast-approaching drunken stupor, we were willing and able to choke down enough of the buffet offerings (greasy Shepherd’s Pie and gristly Salisbury steak) to avoid being seen as food snobs. And the meal gave us additional energy for storming the dance floor after dinner—by then we were so shitfaced the cheeseball DJ had us eating out of his goddamn hand. Out on the dance floor, hospitality girl taught me how to Dougie, while nerdy partner hovered nearby and repeatedly refilled our tiny glasses with beer. And histrionic wife absolutely came alive when the DJ played that J. Lo song On the Floor—she grabbed me and started gyrating all over the place like a maniac, stopping every so often to yell into my ear, “You are so skinny and it makes me so jealous!” Which I loved, obviously.

We were also the hit of the party. We took a break from dancing and reconvened to drink more shots of beer from the tiny glasses at our table, and we noticed that power hours were occurring at a bunch of other tables, too. Then the bride and groom made their photographer shoot photos of our beer can infinity symbol along with a group shot of all of us posing with our tiny glasses of beer. The last thing I remember was stealing seven tiny glasses from an empty table and shoving them in my purse after we all promised to convene for another power hour party in the next week or two.

So in the wake of all this, I’ve been feeling pretty triumphant (albeit hungover). I didn’t know we had it in us to be so resourceful and fun. It actually gives me hope– and makes me realize that maybe I should rethink my policy of refusing to socialize with these people I work with.


  • Guano Dubango

    It pains me to read that LF10 has stooped to getting drunk at a paralegal’s wedding party on the South side of Chicago, “it the baddest part of town”, say your Jim Croce. The only thing missing from the analysis here was a man, which LF10 sorely needs. Had she had a good man there (like me), she would focus on such man, and ensure that such man was happily attended to. In turn, such man would see to it that she were properly attended to once they returned to her stylish apartment along Lake Shore Drive, where my Aunt Ooona has a 2 bedroom condominium.

    I recommend that LF10 find a suitable mate quickly. If not me, then someone local who can provide her with a better outlet for her time than shots of warm beer. My Aunt Ooona would not approve of this, and since she reads Bitter Lawyer assiduously, it is doubtful that she would now recommend LF10 to me for other than a quick roll in the hay. Right, Aunt Ooona?

  • Brother of Guano

    Bro, I believe we’ve had this argument before. You should avoid LF10.

    She’s not really fit for an established man like you: like all women she’s a maze of conflicted emotions and impulses, but in her case she’s so starved for fun and excitement, she’s now convinced herself that its “fun” to go to low end parties in the south side. The “high” point of these parties end with her drunk on cheap beer or boxed wine, and dancing with a bunch of people that could have been finalists for auditions in Revenge of the Nerds.

    To save her from settling in with three cats and a shawl, she needs the attention of an irresponsible and more virile man — like me– who will get her drunk and then have torrid sex with her. Then treat her like a fungible woman.

    You’d be nice to her and all in a glow. She’d be bored with that. I’d treat her like a mere sex toy. Its what she needs. She would be bored to death with you and you know it. You are the respectable end of the family. I am the Party Animal.

    Do want your FB to be on Facebook with weirdoes from this party? Thouoght not. I don’t give a damn what Aunt Ooona thinks.

    Another thing: look at the way LF10 writes: cleanly and crisply, but still–she just prattles ON AND ON, about trivia. She probably keeps endless journals and you’ll have to listen to her warmed over college sociology. I won’t. I’ll tell her to “shhhh!” so I can listen to Game of Thrones or read the “Economic History of the United States.” She’ll realize right away that her tedious observations count for nothing.

    She’ll react to you by fleeing: like Elaine from the established frat biff in the “Graduate”. She’ll try to “re-make” me and have a stable life with me. In the process, she’ll give me better sex than she’d ever give to you, more attention etc. Just when she thinks she’s “saved” me, I’ll dump her. Unless she’s gotten really good at the sex and stayed slim. But if her internal starch bomb has gone off, she’s history. Maybe then she’ll appreciate you.

  • Ellen

    What makes you think that we women are so ANXIUS to have you have sex with us?

    Believe me, I do NOT want either one of you haveing sex with me. FOOEY!

  • MagicCircleJerk

    To alcohol, the solution to all of life’s problems.

    • Michelle Beth

      What problems? You being a dumb fuck? You should kill yourself and problem solved.

      • MagicCircleJerk

        I don’t know why I am lowering myself to respond to you, but I am.

        I’m taunting the fact that this girl thinks that boozing it up is somehow an awesome solution to being at the nuptual equivalent of the gathering of the juggalos.

        Also, pro-spelling tip: It “you’re” not “you”

  • Michelle Beth

    LF10, this is the most upbeat post from you in a while.

    You go girl !!

  • Alma Federer

    I agree this time with Ellen. I also wonder why men think that pretty and smart women like us automatically want to make our vulvas available to men just because they have a JD.

    Guess what? We also have a JD, and just because you have a JD does not mean we have any desire to let you park your little weenies in us.

    In fact, the mere thought of some smelly sweaty guy laying on top of me panting and pounding away is gross, even if that guy has a JD and is making 6 figures.

    From my perspective, I would rather have sex with an unemployed cabbie from Sri Lanka. At least he would be focused on my pleasure, not his, and would do what I wanted him to before I let him put his little weenie in me.

  • Brother of guano

    i don’t want you alma, or the chronically inept typist Ellen. I want LF10 or women like her. I will be rescuing her from a lifetime of loser parties at seedy locations, cheap beer, bad dj’s. And for being rescued, i expect and will insist on being the focus of the pleasure giving. (and that i not have to listen to anything from her assuredly long and tedious journals ). You and women like you can stroke your cats and look at the cowbwebs gathering on your social calendar.