We got married in Edinburgh, in a beautiful Scottish ceremony with friends and family. Our reception was held at The George Hotel, a most famous landmark in Edinburgh.
As we knew the drinks would be flowing fast and furious throughout the reception, we booked a suite at the hotel so we could just stagger make our way upstairs rather than drive home. Eventually, quite late in the evening, everyone finally left and with arms laden with cake, champagne bottles and assorted gifts, Alan and I headed for our room.
I was in the lead, Alan about ten feet behind me, when he suddenly says, "Uh oh."
Our suite was down this little private hallway, at the top of the hotel, and I was eager to get rid of all the stuff in my arms. "Uh oh, what?" I ask as I'm nearly to the door.
With a slight edge of panic in his voice, Alan says, "It's slipping!"
I think something is ready to fall out of his hands, so I quickly turn to help him, though with my own arms full, there wasn't going to be much I could do.
Just as I spin around, his kilt falls in a puddle at his feet.
We both look at each other, then I started laughing. No, I started howling, with a my-stomach-hurts-tears-streaming-oh-my-god laugh of epic proportions. I had to lean against the wall to hold myself upright.
Alan is not amused. He's hissing at me to help him pull up the kilt, or at least take some of the stuff out of his arms. I try to compose myself, but there's no way. He's standing in the hallway of this totally exclusive, fancy hotel, with his kilt at his feet, and his manly parts waving in the breeze. No one could have kept a straight face. He finally bends over, drops his burdens on the carpet and tries to get the kilt adjusted. I'm hopeless to help him.
"What if someone had come down the hall," he barks.
"Especially when you were bent over," I gasp. And that sets me off again.
In a huff, he gathers up the packages off the floor and says with as much dignity as he can, "Could you please open the door."
Okay, I realize this is our wedding night and maybe I better get some control over myself before I totally ruin the mood. I walk to the door, juggle the stuff I have in my hands and unlock the door. Alan takes two steps forward. And the kilt drops like a stone at his feet. Again.
Honestly, if my life had depended on it, I would not have been able to stop laughing.
Finally, the hilarity of the whole thing hits Alan, and he starts laughing too. We stood in the hallway of The George Hotel, on our wedding night, rolling with laughter, with his kilt around his ankles.
And, yes, in case there was any doubt: A true Scot definitely goes commando.
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