On the first day of spring, it snowed.
And as those first plump flakes began to fall, Eric and I took our very first post-matrimonial nap.
City Hall weddings are great. I was always one of those people who, for the majority of her life, thought she would wed in a church, with all of the pomp and even more of the circumstance. Flower girl, flowing train, complex ceremonies involving candles that had to be lit in a certain order. Mini freak-outs in some annex with my mother and bridesmaids. A bouquet bigger than my head.
Right up until the actual day of our wedding, I admit that I was feeling a bit bereft of some of that Pinteresty flair I had always dreamed of. But when Eric’s alarm went off at 5:30 am, I slowly creaked out of bed and took a leisurely shower - not panicking, not rushing, not feverishly running through a list of tasks to be accomplished. In the dark and quiet of our kitchen, I began taking down my curls, running my fingers through the stiff ringlets. Eric got up shortly after me and put on some music. It felt so natural, so normal, to be getting ready for our day together, unhurried and alone. I stopped missing what ten-year-old me had always dreamed of and just let myself bask in the simple peace of our life together - what it had been and what it would be from this day on.
Neither of us had broken our new shoes in, and the morning was bitter with cold. We made it about half a block to the train before deciding to take an Uber.
As we crossed the bridge, I clutched my stomach, feeling sick. Was I nervous? Anxious? Was there some unfinished emotional business I hadn’t yet tended to? I tried to ignore the feeling and focus on the peace that had suffused me earlier that morning, but it was impossible. Our driver seemed to be aiming to hit every possible pothole he could find. The morning traffic made for an endless succession of stops and starts that made the nausea even worse. I couldn’t believe that I felt so uncomfortable at the prospect of marrying the wonderful man seated beside me.
Then we arrived at City Hall, and I stepped outside, and I realized I had just been feeling carsick.
The ceremony itself lasted about two minutes. Quick and dirty. My mother and our friend, Laurent, stood witness as we promised to be togetha 4eva and exchanged our rings. Our officiant was a short, kind man named Angel. I sort of envied him his job.
Our reception was the following evening. I surprised myself by keeping my heels on for the majority of the night. Apparently, my boobs looked great. And Eric and I got exactly two bites of cake, which, according to everyone else, was “really good”.
+ During our first dance, our 4 year old niece exclaims, “AUNTIE CARLA LOOKS LIKE MICHAEL JACKSON!” I don’t know why, or how, but I do know that she adores Michael Jackson, so I’ll take it.
+ The toasts from our family and friends. The love in the room was real. And the mascara I wore even moreso.
+ Our friend Brittany was everything we could have hoped for in an emcee.
+ The pasta.
+ Our slideshow was a hit. Eric and I were real cute as kids. Go us.
+ I didn’t fall down once (it was a real fear).
+ Peanut. She didn’t really do anything, but her mere quasi-presence really adds a lot of joy to any affair these days.
We ended the evening in the most luxurious, wonderful bed known to man, thanks to our friends who pitched in to get us a hotel room for the night. We opened our cards, laughed and reminisced, ordered burgers, and promptly fell asleep. Waking up an hour later sucked, but there were burgers, and Julie and Julia was on TV.
So I’m a married woman. People keep asking if it ‘feels different’ because that’s what people ask when you go through huge, life-changing events. Honestly, no. And I’m glad it doesn’t. We are happy and secure and we love each other a ton. Life without each other would suck severely, so we made a promise to not do that. It doesn’t feel different, really. But it does feel really, really good.