Tony and his missus are wonderful. We love them. We love them so much. We wanted their love celebrated in true Duluthian fashion. So we came from Minneapolis, Mankato, and Boston. We drove, we flew, we sang, we laughed, we ate drive-thru food, we (briefly) got lost in the suburbs, we got so excited we could barely contain ourselves.
It began where Duluth sojourns normally do. A few pints of Lake Superior Kayak Kolsch while reacquainting yourself with Lake Superior herself. The sun shines down so innocuously until all of a sudden you notice it and say to your companion, "it's fucking perfect."
You forgot that Duluth is smaller than your city, as you run into an old friend at Target. "Come to dinner. Bring our friends." A table for five immediately doubles in size. Some eat wild rice burgers. Some eat thirty-five jalepenos. All drink beers. Starfire Pale Ale - high five! Lighthouse Golden - don't judge! Apricot Wheat - Apricot Wheat - Apricot Wheat! Wildfire Lager - burns! I forgot how much I miss you -- I forgot how much I love you. What are you doing next? Nothing? I've got a plan. It's fucking perfect.
Dance! Dance!! Dance!!! Spin, twirl, throw yourself into the arms of your friends. It's like you never left, like there isn't time or distance separating anything you once knew. You are here tonight, you were here last night, the night before, last week, last month, last year, all the time. All of a sudden someone is hollering to pay $40 to whoever can get Fat Tony's shirt off his back and you think to yourself, "this is fucking perfect." Hold up. Are those Ray-Bans?
Love. The weather is gorgeous. The flowers are gorgeous. She is gorgeous. He is gorgeous. You are gorgeous. We are gorgeous. The wind whisks away their words, leaving the vows in the space between the husband and wife. As you wipe away your tears of happiness and love, you lean over to your bff and whisper, "this is fucking perfect."
Celebrate! Eat great food, drink free wine! Take photos, do the hallway dance. Request your own personal jams, request those that your friends will dance to, request those that encourage wonderful memories, request those that require spelling out F-to the-E-R-G-the I-the E. Sarah Fuller knows the entire "Single Ladies" dance, and she will avoid the bouquet with you. We sing, we dance, we drink, we love, we celebrate so much we know we'll be sore. You wait in the long line for the ladies' room and overhear your friend looking for your group by declaring "I'm the date of a girl." You laugh out loud, grasping for your friend's hand, and you think to yourself, "this is so fucking perfect."
You want food. It's late. You get what you want eventually, and believe me, everything tastes so much better after mooning a fast food establishment from across the street. A rodeo burger from Burger King and a chocolate milkshake? Fucking perfect.
You are different. Duluth is the same. Your friendships are the same. Your love is the same. It's always good to go home, to be reminded of your growing pains, your mistakes, the bumps in your path... the reasons you laugh, the reasons you love, the reasons you are who you are right now. Remember that time we got in trouble? That time you cut your foot on that rock? That time we went here, the time we did that? We laugh, we hug, we go our separate ways, promising to keep in touch better, to see each other soon. We go home, return to reality. Our jobs, our bills, our friends, our beds, our cats (both skinny and fat).
But that glorious weekend vacation to a different time and place to come together and celebrate one of our own was truly... perfect.
