7:30: Wake up on my parents’ hide-a-bed with a sense of incredulity. Wedding days dawn like any other. Huh. Expected animated birds, or something.
8:00: Push cereal on a queasy stomach. Evidently, brides are in constant danger of not “keeping their strength up” and “wilting like flowers.” Is this a wedding or a triathlon?
9:00: Peek at my dress. Yep, still love it.
11:00: Hair. The make-or-break moment of the day. Eagle-eyed bridesmaids supervise.
12:00: I am now gorgeous enough to dine at the Subway next door. With veil. No, I don’t feel the slightest bit silly. Customers smile dewily at me. More forced feeding. I think they’re fattening me up for some sort of pagan sacrifice…
1:00: Wishing I could call Paul while at best friend’s house. But of course, this would lead to eternal cursitude.
2:00: In church basement. The Dressing of the Bride. Angels sing.
3:00: Picture time. At one point, the photographer presses me to pose with my hands on my hips. ‘Cause I have
attitude, yo. I oblige, but my thoughts are neither pure nor virginal.
4:00: Where’s the guy with the music?! Jesus Christ. Doesn’t he know I’m crazy?
4:10: He comes. Heart resumes its regular programming.
4:20: Last minute hugs and kisses. None of this feels real.
4:30: I hear the first strings of Bach…
4:31: I see Paul at the end of the aisle. Eyes do shine. It’s real.
4:32: A torrent of words and ritual. But all I need to know is written in his face.
4:45: It’s over.
Oh, there was more. Endless pictures, reception duties, a happy send-off. But that’s not what I really remember.
4:31—that was my wedding day.
Happy 7th, Paul…
