I was hungover on my wedding day.

I say this not because I think it’s cute—and certainly my mom and sister, who drove me to the salon to get our hair did while I retched into a bucket in the backseat (it was one of the greeting baskets we gave to the wedding guests with the itinerary, bottled water, and snacks! I emptied it first), did not think it was cute either. My mistake was borne of a week of too much anxiety and too little food—along with perhaps too much alcohol? (The jury’s still out on science.) Once our trio arrived at the hairdresser’s, one of the stylists took me under her wing, sat me in a chair in a private room, and gave me a fifteen-minute head massage. I don’t know what kind of black magic pressure-pointed voodoo she performed, but it worked. I left that salon feeling like a new person—one who would not barf all over her betrothed.

I shat my pants in Las Vegas.

Read the rest over at Mockingbird!