They're all crazy...

It started as a kid. I would step off the school bus and after taking care of my bus patrol duties (close your eyes and think chubby kid in an orange patrol belt), quickly began a full sprint towards my house. My house was about 1/10^th of a mile up a hill on the left side of my street. Not far at all, and not much of a hill to the naked eye. I loved my street. I knew all the neighbors, who often smiled and waved as I sped past them. There were roughly 10 houses all neatly packed next to each other before you got to mine. Number 11 on the left was me.

Truth be told, after about three houses, my girth in combination with gravity, began to play largely into my speed and thus I often slowed to a near crawl by the time I reached the top of the longest hill ever created. I hated my street. Who in their right mind would create a hill at a 90 degree angle. Ever been to San Francisco? Well the hills there ain’t got nothing on this one. The neighbors mocked the tortoise like speed at which I moved, and even the 14 year old Newfoundland managed to move quicker…backwards.

Home. There are two things that I deem incredibly important about home. One is the use of one of the bathrooms upon arriving. After a long school bus ride, there is nothing more fulfilling then a good pee. Second is being the first person to check the mail each day. Then it was the excitement of a new “Highlights” magazine or maybe even a Harry and David catalog. (God, I love food.) Now, however, it was something much more important.

We are beginning to receive our RSVP’s back. Be still my beating heart.

Sar and I live in a condo now, so our mail is delivered downstairs in our box. If you have never lived in a condo and had the opportunity of receiving your mail this way, let me explain. Often I get home after working since 5 am to find two or three of my neighbors standing directly in front of my box fumbling with keys or on the cell phone or fumbling with keys while on the cell phone. Keep in mind, I am so anal about receiving these RSVP’s that any set back of time and or stalling pisses me off like I was the one contestant on “The Biggest Loser” who doesn’t lose any weight.

Each day we receive, at the least, two of these precious mail parcels. I swear people, it’s like I am Charlie and have found the “Golden Ticket” each time I slip my key into the magical lock. I grab my mail and usually skip the elevator, hopping each step with the length and gate of a wild gazelle being chased by a ravenous lion. (To understand the importance of this, skipping the elevator for me is like missing a meal. It just doesn’t happen.)

So far we have received an overwhelmingly positive response. It seems that people are pretty excited about celebrating with us. Or, they simply want to take a trip to the Outer Banks and have a quasi vacation. Nonetheless, we have only had two folks respond back with no.

When we initially started inviting folks and creating a master list of people we thought worthy of an invite (this is really how you feel), we imagined that 60 percent might attend, as the destination was far for most and the closest airport was a good two hours away. Wrong. Apparently destination weddings are the new “it” thing. Everyone comes. That’s fine by me, it’s Sarah who is losing sleep and having breathing issues. She seems to think that we may not have enough space. To that, I have responded with a list of those who can sit outside the tent.

The list includes…

~ My brother

~ One of my best friends who cheats in scrabble

~ All three living grandmothers

~ All other guests who like camping. I figure they like the outside anyway.

So here we are each afternoon, racing home to see who the lucky one is that gets to open the mail first. It’s almost like winning the lottery each and every day. The only exception is we aren’t gaining any money. Instead, with each “yes,” we are preparing to give more and more of it away.