October 11, 1996

So I’m dancing at the bar last night and I see Chelli. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve tried calling and even a little longer since we’ve actually talked, but those two facts pale in comparison to what happened next.

When we made eye contact, she gave me “the nod.”

This minimal effort signal of recognition usually means one of two things.

It’s possible that the nodder has two drinks in her hand and is unable to acknowledge your presence with anything other than a quick, yet affectionate, jerk of the head. This is often the case on Twos-day night.

The other, less favorable message that “the nod” sends is simply: “There’s no way in hell that I want to talk to you, so don’t even think about embarrassing the both of us by approaching me.”

Well, she didn’t have any drinks in her hand and her eyes weren’t happy.

I think it’s safe to say the love song ending is out of the question.

But that’s … OK. Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me. Just not her.

Since there wasn’t a game this weekend, my cousin Gabe, knowing that I’m always looking for something to do, got married on Saturday. I’m sure there were other reasons, too.

I’m just glad that they took our home schedule into account when they did their planning.

It was kind of cool, because he asked me to be one of his ushers, which is just like being a groomsman without having to stand the whole time with everyone checking out your butt.

With my tux taken care of the only thing I had to worry about wardrobe-wise was to remember black socks. Sadly enough, this was the hardest part of my weekend. Once again, Wal-Mart saved my life as well as the lives of two groomsmen. Good thing they have three-packs.

Then came the wedding itself. Time to ush. After ushing in all of the friends and relatives and all the people just there for the reception, it was time for the best part of my job — trashing the newlyweds’ vehicle.

Knowing we had a time limit, we had to work fast to completely drown their Blazer in everything from peanuts to produce to poultry.

After 37 minutes, the Blazer was ready to go. We had used 10 pounds of puppy chow, six dozen eggs (unbroken for the time being), two bags of flour, three cans of dolphin-safe soy tuna, five cans of shaving gel a pair of Gabe’s Aqua Man underoos and a broken Atari with Combat still in it.

Once the job was complete, we hurried back into the church and ushed everyone out and it was on to the reception.

Now the nice thing about a morning wedding is that it’s perfectly acceptable to get all giddy on champagne before lunch.

By 1:30 in the afternoon, we were all dancing (even Eddie, because he was the only date I could find) and then the inevitable happened.

That damn chicken song.

I think this dance was created as a joke by some drunk groomsmen one time and somehow it caught on. Kind of like acting out the letters of YMCA for all of those that may not be able to spell. Just goes to show Hooked on Phonics worked for us.

So there we are chickening and I see Eddie shaking his tailfeathers by some sassy little lassie. I’m thinking anyone that can make a woman think he’s cool while making little chicken faces has got it made.

The next song was some slow country song and I knew something was up because they weren’t just “don’t-get-close-to-me, junior-high-mixer, I-don’t-know-how-to-two-step” dancing. I’m talking “mack-aroni, down-and-dirty, who’s-your-daddy, two-bodies-moving-as-one” grindage.

So being the good friend that I am, I let Eddie have his fun and didn’t even bother him while he danced to “Endless Love” with his newfound filly.

That’s why I was surprised when he came up to me and said that we had to get the hell out of there. When I asked why the sudden change of heart, he simply said…

“Well, when I told her my name, she said that she thought that Eddie was a beautiful name. Because, after all, that was the name of her youngest son.”

Enough said. It’s like they always say, always the friend of the usher, never the dancing partner of a lady without several children.

So goes life.

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Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. It runs weekly, on Fridays. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.