Over Easter, I heard my husband Brian speak of this for the first time since its occurrence. Therefore, I’m assuming blogging about the atrocity is possible. If not, I hope he considers it therapy.
Chick flicks have always made the acid in my stomach travel northward up my esophagus. If a woman isn’t lucky enough to find her “soul mate” and get married and live happily ever after and have 2.5 children and a dog…the polar ice caps, Pakistan invades India, and coffee is banned. Basically, all relationship-based film marketed towards females and starring Cameron Diaz should be piled in a large mound, showered with Aqua Net, and ignited with a Conair ThermaCell Compact Curling Iron.
One October afternoon, while watching one, that fact hits me in the face. The plot of In Her Shoes centers around Toni Colette’s shoes, her relationship with her sister, her engagement, her broken engagement, her reenacted engagement, and never-ending nuptials. Gag. Like funerals, most weddings are the same. Boring. Just sitting through one can be unbearable…unless it’s Catholic. Then, it’s impossible.
Back in 2011, when Brian placed a plastic gumball machine ring on my finger, I smiled, kissed him, wondered, and fell sleep. The next day, when I realized what that meant, the stars aligned. The world became a wonderful place where world peace is attainable. Until…
My future fellow Metamucil sharer said, “When shall we have the wedding?”
Wedding? I wiped the sweat from my brow, swallowed, and asked, “Do we really need to have a wedding? Can’t we just go to Vegas, sign some papers, or jump over a stick?” Half of my family wasn’t speaking to the other half. I was concerned about only being able to fill a handful of seats. Also, I didn’t want to feel sad or take it personally…which I knew I would…and knives would be at the reception.
I had zero interest in all of the associated wedding planning stress.
The obsession women have with the wedding leaves a nasty residue in my mouth. Great importance is placed on every little detail of the ceremony and reception. Not the vows. Not the forever thing, but how will they wear their hair? What dress will make them most look like a princess? How will the wedding measure up to Will and Kate’s? I was determined not to be pulled into the craziness.
Ours will be different.
Original. Unique. Unconventional and fun, yet serious.
Within twenty-four hours, my dress was ordered. My body required color. Fuschia. Sure the only one available was 6 sizes too large, but I had looked at every dress the net had to offer.
We had an illustrator (and awesome relative) painstakingly handcrafted our custom life-like invitations.Brianna Gilmartin Illustration
A myriad of hours were wasted wiring buttons and tissue paper into bouquets and pomanders to line the aisle. This in addition to actual flowers. By the way, hot glue hurts really bad.
No lifeless processional music. For obvious reasons, we walked down to…
and left to…
His brother-from-another-mother was ordained just to perform our beautiful ceremony.
For literary and sentimental reasons, Brian and I included a reading of I carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummings–the poem he stuck on my facebook page the day he proposed. Our illustrator did a fantastic job painting crystalline droplets of joy down every cheek as she spoke the words.
The dress fit (barely) post alteration, due to a three month fetus. Breathing’s never been a bride’s neccessity.
My whole family came and left without bloodshed. I didn’t vomit from nausea. My face never hit pavement or linoleum.
We replaced our cracked oak rings with titanium over the summer.
Towards the end of the 130 minutes of torture, I was discussing with Brian about how I’m glad we could pull off a one of a kind wedding. That’s when Cameron Diaz took an ice pick and aimed straight for both of our hearts.