There had been a heat wave for well over a week, and the day of our outdoor wedding was approaching quickly. We wondered whether my man's elderly grandmother would be able to withstand the sun and temperatures in the upper 90s, even up at altitude, in the quaint mining town where the wedding was to be held. His grandmother decided not to attend, probably at the urging of his mother. I was one of those horrible brides who thought full-length dresses, made of unbreathable peach-colored polyester satin, would be a great idea in the summer sun. What's worse, we were the kind of nerds who were into the medieval-themed live action role playing world (ah, my shameful geeky youth), so the clothing for both the bridesmaids and groomsmen were period pieces. They were designed by me, and assembled by me and my friends, but done as cheaply as our meager incomes would allow. It's hard for me to look back at our wedding photos, and believe that any of those people still speak to us after that. The costume construction was a bigger project than any of us were prepared for, and we were all up late the night before, trying to complete them. Even so, some of the groomsmen were stitched into their clothes by hand the next morning. And for all that, I still didn't learn my lesson about waiting until the last minute to prepare for an event for many, many years. I'm not sure I have mastered it yet.
The heat wave broke somewhere in the last 24 hours before the wedding, after the rehearsal. It didn't help my stress level a single bit, because then I had to worry about rain on my outdoor event. I must have been such a trial to be around, between the weather, the planning in general, the sewing, and the fact that my man met my father for the first time in person At The Rehearsal! I don't think I was what they now call a "bridezilla," because I wasn't so much demanding to be revered, but rather freaking out because I thought I had to do everything myself. I wish someone had taken me in hand back then, someone who had any experience at all with weddings, because I had none. I knew nothing about registries or budgeting or dancing or anything that goes into putting on this kind of production. I think when my own daughters get married, I am going to spring for a wedding planner, so they don't have to go through the gut-churning stress-fest that I did.
Whether we were totally prepped or not, the time came for the ceremony. While I dressed and downed a few bottles of champagne with the girls, my man raced up the mountain on the back of our friend's motorcycle, damned near late to the wedding. As I said above, the groomsmen were sewn into their clothes, and there was a scramble to find music, because I missed that detail in my planning. Apparently someone grabbed the tape player from my bedroom, and as I walked down the aisle with my father and stepfather on either side of me, I realized that the music playing was the Kitaro instrumental music that we listened to the last time my man and I had, er, been romantic. The ceremony went well, although that "we tease each other like school children" side came out when the pastor told him to kiss me, and he said, "nah," and let me get a horrified look on my face, before he grabbed me in a big hug and kissed me soundly. The reception was well-done, the food so good my mother still talks about it. (We went back to the same inn last year for dinner with the kids, and it is still one of the best places in the state to eat. Primo.) My girlfriends told me that because I declined to wear my glasses during the ceremony, I was too nearsighted to realize I'd married the motorcycle-driving friend by mistake. (He also had light brown hair and a beard at the time.) As we are getting so close to a quarter century together, I say no, I am certain I married the right one.
Happy anniversary, Mr Man. I miss you, and I can't wait until you get to come back home.
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