Today’s the day that Brian and I have been married 10 whole years! To read how we met, click here. To read the first part of our wedding day story, click on yesterday’s post.
I walked down the aisle, tears streaming, eyes reddening, unable to look at my father without a fresh waterfall starting. I just concentrated on that man standing at the altar in his tux (it always comes back to the tux, doesn’t it?). Somehow, I got to the front of the church, heard the priest greet the crowd we are gathered here today…
We had gathered the people nearest and dearest to us. Our family, our friends our dearly beloved had come to witness our new life starting together. The thought of it brought fresh tears to my eyes. (Lest you begin to worry, I cry at Hallmark commercials, so the enduring waterworks on the biggest day of my life were not unexpected.) The music was simple – a guitar and 2 voices. The flowers were lovely – daisies, daisies and more daisies. Everyone looked lovely. There’s a wonderful picture of the whole church laughing, although I can’t recall what they’re laughing at.
The mass was wonderful and meaningful and perfect. The altar was adorned with the flower girls’ baskets of daisies. Our best man sang the communion song. The music and readings were traditional and beautiful. It may be the one time in recorded history where I was strictly traditional. We took a bow after our first married kiss. (At least I did, Brian may have been more restrained.)
We left the church and the day’s rain swept away over the horizon, revealing a gorgeous, sultry summer afternoon. We went to the reception hall and took more pictures. The flower girls wilted in the heat, but were revived with the judicious application of ginger ales. The bridesmaids were similarly rejuvenated with glasses of champagne. Someone called me “Mrs. Carvin” and I looked around for my mother-in-law. (Still do, actually.)
As the cocktail hour was set to begin, the skies clouded over again and our guests were treated to a fabulous lightning show, as if Mother Nature herself was wishing us well. We skipped the receiving line and talked with each guest during the cocktail hour instead. Around the ballroom, tables were set with names like George and Gracie, Antony and Cleopatra and Hepburn and Tracy. (No one was “stuck” at Table 217.) The rule was that the couple didn’t have to be married, but couldn’t have been divorced from each other. We sat at Westley and Buttercup.
The dinner was fabulous, the cake divine. Our friends and former professors DJ’ed the dancing portion of our evening, spinning the oldies and getting everyone on the dance floor. We left in a cloud of bubbles blown by our guests and whisked away to the honeymoon suite. I got that (now heavy and sweaty) dress off and realized I’d left my overnight bag down in one of the anterooms off the ballroom. My gracious groom trekked back down to retrieve it for me.
The next morning, we met family and friends in the private dining room the hotel had set up for us. I wore a blue housecoat and bedroom slippers to prove that I was now an old married lady. The housecoat had been a gift from one of my uncles who was scandalized by his wife’s choice of a gift negligee at my bridal shower. I don’t think I’ve worn that housecoat since, but it’s in the attic.
We had another mass back at the house (it being Sunday after all) and headed south on our honeymoon.
And we’ve lived happily ever after.
