Another morning slaps me in the face, and the misty haze that was my weekend is much too much to bear. Sporadic snippets of memory flash through my mind, replaying – in third person perspective – the heinous social crimes that I have committed. Ah The Weekend…a spectacle that provides us with a moral framework to validate our routine alcoholism. And while on the topic of spectacle, it occurs to me that in the absence of Berocca, and due to the expired Bloody Mary Mix in my fridge, I have but the idea that wedding season is drawing to a much needed close to nurse my hangover with. But why do we love to hate wedding season so? What’s not to like about a big party with free booze and a buffet? Is it because we don’t really feel like seeing the same people for 5 months? Or is it because we feel that we are brought to a ballroom, along with 300 fellow acquaintances to entertain a couple of families? Too many of them perhaps? Miss the feeling of ripped jeans hanging from your torso while you scamper for drinks at the bar? While I struggle to find an answer, the evil stench of vitamins give my 3 remaining brain cells a whiplash…It is not simply because the women are so damn hot with their parents sitting but a few feet away. Nor is it because of the tightly corseted conversation. It is because there is a tiny little voice in all of us, no matter how miniscule, that begs us, to at least take off our suites before we violate a 2Pac record.