Reason #2: Frostbite on Your Ass

Beach weddings are definitely not as glamorous as one would think. So far, the officiant had a face-off with a seagull, one bridesmaid couldn't walk down the aisle in her heels, and Kenya will be spending quite a lot of time editing joggers and old men in skimpy swimsuits out of the background of this couple's photos.

Honestly, I'm never getting married. And if by some chance event I do, my wedding will be held somewhere with air conditioning.

"Hey, Sophie?" called Carlene, the hotel event planner. I walked over to her, enviously eyeing her light sundress. Really, who chose these uniforms? It's the most humid day of the year and I'm wearing a long sleeve shirt and pants.

"What is it?" I asked Carlene.

"We've got a bit of an issue," she said quietly. "The DJ didn't show up."

"Well, just play a boombox or something," I said, unphased by this "issue".

"Sophie! We can't just play a CD! This is a wedding, not a frat party!" she cried. If there was one thing Carlene couldn't handle, it was things going wrong.

"Why didn't the DJ show up?" I asked, trying to stall as I thought up solutions.

"Funny story... I kind of forgot to tell him the date-"


"-and then he booked another event tonight."

I had no idea how Carlene managed to be an event planner. Don't event planners usually need to be, oh, I don't know, responsible?

"I've got it! Rob! He'll do it!" I said.

"The poolside reggae man?" she said disdainfully.


"Sophie, I cannot have Rob play at a wedding. He can barely handle the pool," she sneered.

"Well, how about the lounge group?"

She looked at me like I was of my mind.

"Fine. Go get them," she said shortly.

"You're welcome, Car," I laughed as I walked away to the hotel.

"Go!" she screamed, earning a dirty look from the bride in the middle of her vows.

I sprinted into the lounge and found the band in the middle of a set.

"Can I borrow these guys for a while?" I said to the bartender.

"Sure?" he said, barely questioning me.

"Thank you!" I cried as I glanced at the clock. Probably five minutes until cocktail hour.

I jumped on the stage.

"Can you guys play anything good? Like for weddings?" I whispered to the lead singer.

"Yeah, I guess. Why?" he said.

"I need you for a wedding. Right now. Carlene's orders."

He turned to the audience, gave an awkward wave, and signaled to the band to pack up.

Five minutes later, I arrived back at the beach.

"Carlene, the band is coming!" I shouted as I raced to the kitchen. Cocktail hour was starting and I needed to serve.

I tied on my apron, picked up a tray, and stumbled into the ballroom, which was decked out in sickening bubblegum pink.

Ugh. Brides these days.

I wandered around the room, trying to avoid crowds. I had learned that large groups will eat your entire tray, and you'll have to make a trip back to the kitchen. And that is way too much work.

"Well, hello, Sophie," a voice whispered in my ear.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Abort mission. Run away now.

"Shrimp?" I said holding out my tray and refusing to look up.

"Don't mind if I do," Kyle chuckled as he grabbed a few off of my tray. Yuck. I never cared much for shellfish. Not since I got food poisoning from my fifteenth birthday at Red Lobster.

"Oh, Sophie, why are you always serving? A pretty girl like you should be on the receiving end," he said with a disgusting smirk on his face.

"It beats being an accountant. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm sure some other guests would like shrimp," I said curtly as I turned on my heel and marched away.

Kyle Gordon, ladies and gentlemen.

I walked straight through a gathering of ladies sipping fine wine.

"Is this sauce low-fat?" asked one lady with a clearly botched boob job.

"Um, yeah," I said. Anything to clear this tray and run away to the kitchen. I needed to stay clear of Kyle.

I slipped into the kitchen. Kenya was probably still taking pictures, so it would be a while until I hit up the bar. I couldn't really face tonight's bartender alone after the time that we had a little too much fun at another wedding a few months ago. After you drunkenly hook up with somebody in a freezer, it's pretty hard to face them ever again.

On a side note, frostbite on your ass hurts like hell.

The ladies finished stuffing their overly Botoxed faces with shrimp, and I was finally able to slip into the kitchen.

I scanned the kitchen for Lou, a chef I particularly liked because he would usually save some food for me. On really good nights, he'd slip me a piece of cake.

To my dismay, Lou was nowhere to be found. I wandered around to find his station, but when I arrived at it, I found a different guy.

"You aren't Lou," I said, the disappointment a little too obvious in my voice.

"I'm sorry?" he said, setting down a salt shaker. Hm. He was actually pretty cute.

"This is usually where my friend works," I said.

"I was told that I was taking the place of Lou. He left, actually. He wanted to be with his family out of state."

Lou left and didn't tell me?

Well, he did leave this hot new guy as his replacement. I wouldn't mind a little time in the freezer with him. Or maybe somewhere warmer, like a closet.

"Are you new here?" I asked, trying to make smalltalk.

"No, I've actually worked her for a few months. But I really just did little jobs, you know," he said as he started chopping tomatoes.

Good job, Sophie. Go ahead and make it even more obvious that you had no clue who he was.

"You need that tray filled?" he asked, breaking me out of my self-scolding.

"Oh, I guess," I said.

"There's extra fruit over there," he said. In other words, "Go away and let me work."

"Thanks," I sighed in frustration.

No freezer sex for him.