On Marriage

Well, what can I say? So far, being married is pretty awesome. All these years I thought I'd feel oppressed or at least different. But being married is...just us. We're exactly like we were before, except now I don't have to worry about it. It's me, with him, with stability. And better silverware.

Everyone agreed that the wedding was very us, and it was. It was perfect in its own idiosyncratic way. Several people told me afterward that was the most fun they'd ever had with perfect strangers. I had no doubt our families would hit it off--they did--and we already had all the same friends in common. My biggest regret was that I couldn't stay up partying with everyone for 72 hours straight. For those of you who couldn't make it--well, you really missed out.

The week leading up to the wedding was busy, and exhausting, and exhilarating at the same time. The two families hunkered down in a big, beautiful mountain house, with nothing to do but cook and eat and hang out. (Sounds like a Godfather sequel, doesn't it?) We arrived late on the Saturday before the wedding, driving from DC through the wilds of central rural Virginia. We missed my sister's graduation (she was getting her master's degree) but made it in time for a raucous family dinner with all the kids and all the spouses. Sunday was church, followed by my sister's baby shower, followed by a barbecue. Monday we got up and started baking. Three dozen loaves of bread, several pounds of bacon chocolate, and I don't even know how many cookies. Let me tell you, cooking all day is exhausting. It doesn't sound like it would be, but it is. We made it maybe halfway through all the cookies and fudge before I threw in the towel.

On Tuesday, we went to the local courthouse and got our marriage license. One of the few advantages of growing up in the middle of nowhere is that when you go to get your marriage license, a) there's no line, b) the clerk already knows you, c) you don't need to show ID, and d) you're the only people there. It took us maybe 15 minutes, and that was mostly filling out the paperwork. I continued on to complete the shopping for the week, which ended up being much less expensive than I'd planned. And a side note--we sent at least half the food and half the booze home with people on Sunday. I drastically overestimated how much we'd need, and you know what? It was still a lot cheaper than I'd budgeted. Rock on.

People started arriving Tuesday night and Wednesday morning--my sister and her husband, my Dear Husband's sister and her family, his parents, my parents, my grandmother. We had a bridal shower and a big dinner. We got in the hot tub. We baked some more cookies. (We were all so tired of baking cookies that no one wanted to eat any--the tragic flaw in my plan. We didn't make anywhere near the 600 I thought we'd need, and there were still a bazillion left over.) My brother-in-law sliced his finger open with one of my mom's very sharp knives on Wednesday night, requiring four stitches. It's not a party until someone bleeds.

Repeat ad infinitum--cooking, eating, drinking, hot tub. Sleep. More people. Cooking, eating, drinking, hot tub, drinking, eating, more people, hot tub, etc., etc. Thursday night we started cooking the 100 pounds of Boston butt we'd bought for the barbecue, and when I woke up at three in the morning to the overpowering smell of slow-roated pork, I couldn't get back to sleep because the house smelled so good. Which unfortunately set a bad precedent for the week--being too excited to sleep.

Friday was the day most of our friends and extended family would be rolling into town, so I started off in the spa. Then we started making vats of gumbo--chicken and andouille sausage gumbo, and a seafood gumbo made with fresh Gulf shrimp, crawfish and alligator sausage. By this point I was doing more delegating than cooking; I was trying to greet guests, talk to old friends, and cook simultaneously, which meant all of those things were being done poorly. I will admit it was kinda fun to point at random people and say things like, "Could you chop these peppers for me?" and "Stir that" and "You're in charge of mincing the parsley." And those things got done! I get a kick out of saying to my hubby, "You need to vacuum today,"--and then he does it! How awesome is that?!--but it was even cooler when people I'm not married to were scurrying around asking, "What can I do to help?" All that help made the gumbo extra delicious.

I was so excited by everyone's arrival that I forgot to eat. I kept running from one old friend to another, checking in with everyone, making sure everyone was having a good time. I didn't have a chance to really talk in-depth with anyone, but I was still deliriously happy to have (almost) everyone I loved under one roof. Plus the house came with the most amazing pimptastic bar ever. I was quite the social butterfly.

I hit the wall hard sometime after midnight, which meant I woke up on my wedding day coasting on about five hours' sleep, too nervous to eat (and I forgot to eat dinner on Friday), and too wired to either nap or at least sit down. Well, nervous isn't quite the right word. I was fluttery and keyed up, but I wanted to get married. I really did. On some level, I was paranoid it wouldn't actually happen--that it would turn out to be some elaborate practical joke, or that he really would cut and run at the altar. Because I hadn't wanted to be married for so long, and then I hadn't let myself want it for fear of it never happening, and then once I did admit I wanted it, I got humiliated in the worst way, and so then I was back to not wanting it. And there it was, within reach. Surely the universe would throw up some roadblock, it couldn't happen that easily. At the very least, I would spill something on the ivory satin wedding dress my mom made me, or snap the heel of my $400 Stuart Weitzman red satin pumps. Right?

And then, before I knew it, the music cued. The minister prayed, his brother-in-law played a hauntingly beautiful bagpipe solo (that went perfectly with the rainy, foggy weather), and my best friend took her place to officiate the ceremony. Someone handed me a bouquet, and then there I was, walking down the aisle. I was still nervous, but I didn't cry, or trip, or run away. Neither did he. We just stood there, grinning at each other, as my best friend grinned at the two of us. Mercifully, the ceremony was short. When the words "husband and wife" floated through the air, everyone applauded.

The rest of the night was a blur of friends and drinks and laughter. It was the first time all week I could truly relax, so I did. A lot of people left earlier than I would have liked (maybe they were tired from Friday night, too), but the barbecue was a huge hit and I got several exhortations to bottle my barbecue sauce. Somewhere in the middle of all that my brother got operated on (see previous post). Sometime after midnight, the small group of people left shooed John and me away. "It's your wedding night! Go celebrate it!" they cried. "I only see you people once every few years, MAYBE," I said. "I can see my husband for the rest of my life. Let me hang out with you a little while longer!" But no. We were shooed away. I suppose it's a good thing, in retrospect, because I remember going up the stairs to our bedroom, but I don't remember anything else until waking up at 4 am. I was so tired that I went unconscious literally the moment I touched the bed. Not quite the wedding night everyone had in mind, I'm sure, but we've been making up for it this week. (I've never had legal sex before! It's quite the novelty.)

And then the next day, everyone left. Three metric tons of leftover food and booze were divided up and carried away, and then we had that enormous house to ourselves for a night. The plan all along was to come back to our apartment in California and "honeymoon" at home for a week, running errands and hanging out. And all along I thought that was a cop-out, that I'd be chomping at the bit to travel, to go somewhere and do something. After last week, I've been more than content to sit at home on my ass all week long. We've been productive--we had to restock the completely depleted pantry and liquor cabinet, do laundry, unpack, blah blah--but I've also been sleeping 10 to 12 hours every night. That's right, folks, I'm spending my honeymoon in shorts, on my sofa, drinking rum and watching cheesy movies. Aren't you jealous?

In my defense, we've at least been eating well. No more beans or soup for a while. Our first married dinner was a board full of gourmet cheese and salami, with fresh buffalo carpaccio, and a good bottle of wine. Our second married dinner was roasted pork belly with wild rice and an avocado-arugula-heirloom tomato salad. Our third married dinner was whole broiled trout wrapped in wild boar bacon with broccoli rabe. And so on.

So, to sum up: I love my husband. I love being married. We'll get that same house and throw down again for our five-year anniversary. You're all invited.