Now Accepting the Traditional GIfts of Lace & Lingerie

I got married thirteen years ago today. The day was hot and kind of overcast, and I felt like a big dork in the dress I caved and let my mother choose (she paid for it, so I felt obligated—it made her SO HAPPY), but I had done my own hair and make-up and at least felt like myself from the neck up. I am lucky enough to be on the busty side, so I was able to pack my sunglasses, keys, gum, lipstick, and cigarettes (yes, I smoked then) right into my bra. (What do flat-chested women do in this situation? Do you carry a little bag AND a bouquet?) I was excited (I was about to marry my best friend and was assuming I would magically turn into a fabulous grown-up) and nervous (I’d been having problems with panic and anxiety for more than two years at that point—but hadn’t yet realized those were my problems, so I basically felt like I was kind of crazy and might throw up or die at any given moment).

I remember that C didn’t get that mushy look on his face when he first saw me (I hadn’t expected him to, really, because I knew I looked like a dork, but still . . . I’m as conditioned to expect romance as the next woman, I guess), but he did have to fight to not crack up when he looked down (he’s a foot taller than I am) and saw all of the items stashed in my bra.

The wedding was outside (C is an atheist and was therefore dead set against getting married in my childhood Catholic church, but my parents would have died if I hadn’t involved God in one way or another, so we compromised and got married outside, by a woman who was a nurse with my mom and also a Lutheran minister—I didn’t really care one way or another but was made happy by the bit about the minister’s being a woman) at a small place that billed itself as a resort, and the reception was in a room at the same place. I’m pretty sure there was a sit-down dinner rather than a buffet, as C and I were both snotty brats at the time and were hoping to show our friends and relatives that we could do one better than the traditional wedding in our area, riggity-chiggity-piggity (rigatoni, fried chicken, pigs in a blanket buffet) in a fire hall, and I know we played jazz during dinner. (As we wanted to class things up but were clueless as to how [snotty AND stupid—nice!], we turned to our friend B for musical help and he suggested Thelonius Monk. C’s aunt complained about the terrible music all through dinner, which convinced us that B’s suggestion was a good one.)

C and I had borrowed video tapes from the library in hopes of learning to dance (again with the classy), and a German woman did indeed teach us to waltz, foxtrot, and swing. Her “slow, slow; quick-quick” sounded like, “slow (rhymed with plow), slow; ka-wick-ka-wick,” but it did the trick. We had chosen Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic as our wedding song (and I’m not sure why—neither of us felt very strongly about it, but it’s a nice enough song), and C counted steps and nodded his head as we danced our first dance. It was nice despite the DJ’s bubbles, which started to fall all over us as we danced, totally sabotaging any efforts we’d made to class things up.

We had a chocolate wedding cake, which was one of the only things I’d felt strongly about. I didn’t eat any, of course, because of the whole panic thing, but it was pretty and people seemed to like it.

There was lots of dancing. My sister and maid of honor (not 21 for another month) was nicely toasted. My parents were cute and my mother cried. A good time was had by all.

I’ve been officially divorced for just under three years. I didn’t want to be divorced, but it was the right thing. I was justly miserable for a period around the end of my marriage, and may have wished C would have had the decency to have been hit by a bus so I could have been a rich widow rather than a poor divorcee, but I got over that pretty quickly. And I’ll never regret the marriage, because without it, The Boy wouldn’t have been born. And The Boy really is the best thing, well, EVER.

All in all, I look at July 8 very fondly. It is truly a happy anniversary.