Twelve Years

Tomorrow is my 12th wedding anniversary. Twelve years ago tomorrow, on the 34th Sunday in Ordinary Time (aka Christ the King Sunday) and five years to the day after I became a real live Cath-o-lick, Himself and Myself got married, at St. Patrick's church in a little South Jersey town.

I had the requisite South Jersey Catholic Big Hair, courtesy of a can of spray that requires a license and a hazmat certification to use and a hairdresser so fiercely bent on day-long perfection that not a single strand moved all day. (Nor, for that matter, for three days afterward. )

I was never one of those little girls who sprawled on her pink canopy bed fantasizing about her wedding. Once we picked the date, something I referred to as a 'Bridal Dictatorship' was initiated. Pick it, buy it. Say yes, say no. No foo foo nonsense. No quietly dying inside while someone else insisted on something you didn't give a toss about. When dress buying time came about, I purchased 1 (one) bridal magazine, picked an Alfred Angelo bridesmaid's dress that was under $150 and wouldn't cause any of my 3 (three) bridesmaids to do the Guantanamo Bay detainment diet, and I drove to 1 (one) David's Bridal and had this conversation with my mom in the parking lot:

"Okay, here's how this is going to go. I'm going in there, I'm going to find a dress, and I'm going to buy it."

"Okay."

I bought tried-on dress number three, once the helpful salesgirl realized that the DRESS was okay, but the ivory material made me look like I had decreased liver function. We tried the white, Mom cried, it was the right one, they shoved it into a pink wardrobe bag, and away I went.

I only really had one wedding image in my head that guided me. The one above. I wanted a big ol' train to drag down the aisle just like Maria. (Not so much the instant family and singing nuns. Just the train.) So I got it. For the uninitiated or not-as-insane its referred to as "a Cathedral Length Train".

So began a small problem that, if it had a Sound of Music-type song for it, would need a song called 'How do you solve a problem like a giant caboose and a bustled Cathedral Length train crammed into a folding chair'. Which isn't nearly as musical as 'a problem like Maria', but every bit as disconcerting. And for the record, you 'catch a chair and pin it down' by putting it against the wall behind the head table, perching on the edge, and jamming your feet against the floor. 'How do you solve a mark-ed lack of traction' is another story altogether.

I used the ladies' room exactly once during the reception. I took the dress completely off. It was easier. Plus I could readjust my foundational garments. (Read: briefly re-establish blood circulation to my thighs and various ladyparts.)

Still, it was a lovely day. Last Saturday, I took the Bustle of Doom to a consignment shop, hanging it up for the ladies to sigh over while I shamelessly reminisced about November 23, 1996. I felt a little sad as I left it with strangers. Oh well, I still have the best part of that day anyway.

Tomorrow: Perhaps scanned photos if I can get himself to hook the scanner back up. And sage advice from MSN about 'pleasing your man', complete with snarky heckles.