prelude to 'I do'
The nerves had taken hold.
We had set the chapel. I was under strict instructions from my matron of honor to "eat something, now, I mean it." The boutonnieres had disappeared from my sight, presumably to the lapels on which they belonged. And I was nervous, trembling, unable to remember the vows we had chosen months ahead of time. Great, I thought. The teacher, the big-bad-ain't-no-public-speaking-gonna-scare-me instructor was fumbling over her words. A perfect sign.
My bridesmaids flurried around the room in splashes of blue, sparkle, and stiletto. The clock read 2 pm, and I longed for a drink much more appropriate for 5.
Suddenly, my mother appeared in her navy pleated dress, beaming like a red carpet veteran with her spunky up-do and silver heels. "Should we get your dress on?" she asked excitedly. She never wore a wedding dress; married before a justice of the peace, my mother was also experiencing the wedding jitters for the first time. I mumbled an affirmative response through my granola bar, pinching my jeans with my fingertips in case any chocolate residue was left on my nails. The dress, the dress. What if he didn't like it, I wondered to myself. What if my bra shows? Oh, crap, what if I step on the bottom and it rips? Bonaventure alum rips dress, bites the dust in Doyle chapel, the BV would read. Full humiliation on A-2.
My beautiful girls closed in on me at once, hair spray still misting from their curly coifs, and I felt myself in a group hug--the kind of group hug where 6 grown women were dressing me. I glanced at the clock again--wait, 2:40? How did it get so late so early? As tulle and taffeta billowed around me, I wondered who the hell came up with the superstition that seeing one's significant other on the wedding day was bad luck. For the past three and a half years, I had seen Chris almost every day. And now I was going on almost 15 hours of separation on one of the most important days of my life. I wanted it to be over. In fact, I wanted it to be yesterday.
"It's almost 3. Should we go?"
Yes, yes, for the love of God yes. And while we're at it, maybe we could ask everyone in attendance to look the other way when I come in.
Deep breaths.
Yet for the speed with which the afternoon had passed, the procession across Doyle Hall took years. We had to trek the stairs in microsteps, carrying trains and bouquets and our dignity past the basement laundry room. The groomsmen were outside--outside!--in the torrential sprinkling that was sure to leave at least a few dewdrops on their pant legs. My mom had a gum wrapper and no garbage can to place it in. I said with exasperation to just toss it somewhere, it's-the-history-department-for-crying-out-loud, and then we all realized my voice had carried too loudly--the chapel was quiet. No music played. For a brief moment, I panicked; did Chris not show up?
And then the Canon began, and my friends moved forward, two by two, tear by tear. My mom and dad wanted a moment, but I couldn't indulge them--I had to see him. I stretched my neck forward, craning around the corner of the church doors, eyes clambering toward the altar for the only person in the world who mattered to me. I needed to know he was there; I needed to see him to make sure this was still real.
We made eye contact. He burst into a smile, and my heart flipped upside down and shot up through my chest like an acrobat. My life stood only 40 feet away, and I couldn't wait another moment to get there. I thought I would cry, thought I would make a heaving mess of myself as I walked up the aisle, but instead I was radiating love. And before I took my first step, that moment of bliss imprinted itself in my mind, forever to be my snapshot memory of my husband on our wedding day.
My best friend. My partner. My rock. My love. Mine.
We had set the chapel. I was under strict instructions from my matron of honor to "eat something, now, I mean it." The boutonnieres had disappeared from my sight, presumably to the lapels on which they belonged. And I was nervous, trembling, unable to remember the vows we had chosen months ahead of time. Great, I thought. The teacher, the big-bad-ain't-no-public-speaking-gonna-scare-me instructor was fumbling over her words. A perfect sign.
My bridesmaids flurried around the room in splashes of blue, sparkle, and stiletto. The clock read 2 pm, and I longed for a drink much more appropriate for 5.
Suddenly, my mother appeared in her navy pleated dress, beaming like a red carpet veteran with her spunky up-do and silver heels. "Should we get your dress on?" she asked excitedly. She never wore a wedding dress; married before a justice of the peace, my mother was also experiencing the wedding jitters for the first time. I mumbled an affirmative response through my granola bar, pinching my jeans with my fingertips in case any chocolate residue was left on my nails. The dress, the dress. What if he didn't like it, I wondered to myself. What if my bra shows? Oh, crap, what if I step on the bottom and it rips? Bonaventure alum rips dress, bites the dust in Doyle chapel, the BV would read. Full humiliation on A-2.
My beautiful girls closed in on me at once, hair spray still misting from their curly coifs, and I felt myself in a group hug--the kind of group hug where 6 grown women were dressing me. I glanced at the clock again--wait, 2:40? How did it get so late so early? As tulle and taffeta billowed around me, I wondered who the hell came up with the superstition that seeing one's significant other on the wedding day was bad luck. For the past three and a half years, I had seen Chris almost every day. And now I was going on almost 15 hours of separation on one of the most important days of my life. I wanted it to be over. In fact, I wanted it to be yesterday.
"It's almost 3. Should we go?"
Yes, yes, for the love of God yes. And while we're at it, maybe we could ask everyone in attendance to look the other way when I come in.
Deep breaths.
Yet for the speed with which the afternoon had passed, the procession across Doyle Hall took years. We had to trek the stairs in microsteps, carrying trains and bouquets and our dignity past the basement laundry room. The groomsmen were outside--outside!--in the torrential sprinkling that was sure to leave at least a few dewdrops on their pant legs. My mom had a gum wrapper and no garbage can to place it in. I said with exasperation to just toss it somewhere, it's-the-history-department-for-crying-out-loud, and then we all realized my voice had carried too loudly--the chapel was quiet. No music played. For a brief moment, I panicked; did Chris not show up?
And then the Canon began, and my friends moved forward, two by two, tear by tear. My mom and dad wanted a moment, but I couldn't indulge them--I had to see him. I stretched my neck forward, craning around the corner of the church doors, eyes clambering toward the altar for the only person in the world who mattered to me. I needed to know he was there; I needed to see him to make sure this was still real.
We made eye contact. He burst into a smile, and my heart flipped upside down and shot up through my chest like an acrobat. My life stood only 40 feet away, and I couldn't wait another moment to get there. I thought I would cry, thought I would make a heaving mess of myself as I walked up the aisle, but instead I was radiating love. And before I took my first step, that moment of bliss imprinted itself in my mind, forever to be my snapshot memory of my husband on our wedding day.
My best friend. My partner. My rock. My love. Mine.