The Wedding That Almost Wasn't

Alright, enough of the poor me, my poor learning disabled kid schtick. Quelle bummer, eh?

Today is my 14th anniversary. Sometimes, that seems impossible. It honestly seems like just yesterday that we were starting our life journey together. It seems like just yesterday that we were a young couple expecting our first baby. It seems like just yesterday that we were a young couple expecting our second baby.

The years have flown by. And though we have definitely had our ups and downs, I feel extremely lucky to have found a life partner and friend like Husband.

I've already done the "Husband rocks" thing to death, so to spare you any further treacly, nauseating rhetoric, I will tell you a story. The story of the wedding that almost wasn't.

It's a long story, so grab a cuppa something and get comfy.

I will preface this story with another story, that could, had I been of a mind to look at it that way, been an omen of what was to come. In preparation for our honeymoon we applied for passports. Husband went to renew his driver's license to make sure everything was in order. He was promptly arrested.

It seems that a former roomate of his had assumed his identity by stealing personal documents and procured a driver's license in Husband's name. Then, he had gone on a petty crime spree throughout the state. Check forgery, robbbery, theft, hit and run, fraud. At the time, the fraud division of the GBI was no great shakes, and the burden of proof was on us. We spent MONTHS trying to straighten out the mess, terrified that our passports would be held up, and our ridiculously expensive (and far beyond our means) honeymoon package would be wasted.

So there was that.

Husband and I were on a seriously tight budget. Husband's sister had, after being engaged far longer than we, decided to marry a mere three weeks after our wedding. Thus, all of the in-laws resources were sucked into the swirling vortex of need and obligation and there was nothing left to spare for us. My parents were experiencing a bit of a financial crisis at the time, and though they did what they could, even the most bare bones wedding cost far more than we could afford.

We budgeted carefully and in the end, decided to marry in a small Unitarian church that offered a wedding package we could afford, which included the services of a "wedding coordinator". Taking it down to it's most basic terms, in this instance, "wedding coordinator" would mean a chick who goes to the church and digs weddings and likes picking out pretty flowers. I think said chick was also badly in need of some meaning and direction in her life, but again, different story.

So first off...because a number of our guests were from out of state, the Bachelor party was held the night before the wedding. If you know anything, you know that this was a recipe for disaster. My father got my fiancee well and truly inebriated, so much so, that he urinated in the bedroom of my best friend and matron of honor (and her husband, who was also one of husband's groomsmen) having stumbled there in the middle of the night in a drunken stupor, thinking it was the bathroom. I know, I know...nobody was holding a gun to Husband's head and making him drink but you have to know my Dad. He's a persuasive guy.

Anyway...Husband was not in terribly good shape, even by the next evening when our wedding was being held at 7:00 pm.

One of my bridesmaids broke down on the highway on the way to the church and couldn't get anybody to stop. This was before everybody and their 8 year old had a cell phone. Why you wouldn't stop to help a woman in a coral colored evening gown and high heels is beyond me. She was frantic, thinking she was holding up the service. Little did she know.

My gown was not custom made, but because I have some weird physiological quirks, it needed quite a few alterations. Though I was a size 10 at the time, my arms were a size 18 (not really, but they might as well have been). I've always had weirdly fat arms. It's a family trait, I guess. I had been doing tricep kickbacks for months, but that only seemed to add to the problem. So the arms needed to be let out.

At 5'4" I am short, but not freakishly so. But this dress was apparently made for an Amazon, because it had to be shortened almost 6 inches, which necessitated that the entire bottom of the dress basically be reconstructed. Also, the bust and the waistline needed to be taken in as my torso really belongs on the body of someone much smaller in the caboose. And, of course, the bustle stays needed to be added.

When I picked the dress up at the seamstress's house several days before the wedding, it was draped over a series of hangers and swathed in opaque gray plastic. The seamstress told me that it had been pressed and carefully hung to prevent creasing. She said NOT TO TOUCH IT until it was time to put it on. Foolishly, I never even peeked under the plastic.

You can guess where this is going, right?

At the church, which was really, I think, a former grocery store located in a strip mall, the only place for me to dress was the Pastor's study. As I fussed over hair and make-up, my matron of honor unwrapped the dress. "Hey, I didn't know you decided to replace the roses on the back with a bow." She said this with surprise, but no great concern. I'm not really a bow type of gal. And, with a behind that would put J-Lo to shame, I'm definitely not an ass bow kinda gal.

I replied that I had not, but at that point, I was not yet concerned, merely confused. But further investigation revealed that not only was it not my dress, it was not even finsished. Raw, ragged seams dangled thread, pins poked from the hem and wrists, and yes, the beautiful silk roses that I had loved so much on the original dress had been yanked off and large, floppy bows temporarily pinned in place; one, right smack dab over what would have been the top of the wearer's butt crack. To add insult to injury, the dress was a size 20. There was simply no way I could make it work.

I was paralyzed with shock, but my mother was galvanized into action. She called the store, only to find that the seamstress, who, presumably, had my dress, had left the country for Brazil, or Argentina, or some such exotic and far flung location. She would not be back for weeks. A quick check confirmed that my dress was not at the store.

My mother told the store manager that she didn't care what she had to do, but she better get an effing dress to the effing church in an effing hour, or she would take out a full page ad in the Atlanta Journal Constitution chronicling our disaster at their hands.

It was the first and last time I ever heard my mother say the f word.

So, while I languished in the Pastor's study, clad only in my push up bra, lacy slip and pantyhose, my guests drank all the boxed wine and ate up all the lil smokies and mini quiches. There would be nothing left for after the ceremony, but that was the least of my worries at the time.

While I paced, well-meaning friends and relatives, seeking to soothe my frazzled nerves, brought me glass after glass of wine. Since I hadn't eaten that day due to nerves, it went straight to my head. And by the time the dress arrived, I was every bit as drunk as Husband had been the night before.

The dress was a store demo. It was the correct model, but it was heavily creased and begrimed. The store people had spot cleaned it hurriedly, but the sleeves and the hem were still filthy. The bodice sagged comically and it was far too long. I looked like a little girl playing dress up. But it was a dress and I was spared from having to walk down the aisle in my attractive and pricey but not altogether modest underclothes.

As we stood at the entry doors to the church, my father had an iron grip on my arm. I wobbled and swayed on my 3 inch satin heels and insisted that I had to use the bathroom. "No you don't." he said soothingly. "You just think you do." And with that, he took a deep breath, opened the doors, and proceeded to drag me down the aisle.

From there things proceeded pretty much as planned. I traded my Dad's arm for Husband's and I clung to him with what he at first presumed was amorous zeal. But he soon figured out I was completely snockered and holding on for dear life. He said nothing, but merely tightened his grip. We made quite a pair the two of us; he green to the gills and me flushed and stumbling.

We got through the ceremony just fine, but another disaster was lurking.

The cake, you see, simply never materialized. To this day, I don't know what happened. I think my mother does, but wisely, she forebore to explain right then, and she has not offered an explanation since. She simply directed the "wedding coordinator" to find me a cake, any cake, and be back within the hour. What I got, was a rectangular grocery store confection with orange icing, and the most hideously gaudy wedding topper I've ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. But it was a cake.

When, finally, the ceremony had concluded, I let out a sigh of relief. I felt relaxed for the first time that day and I was ready to par-tay.

Until I realized that everyone was leaving. Then my blood began to boil. I didn't care if there wasn't anything left to drink but tap water and nothing left to eat but communion wafers...I had paid for a dj and people were going to DANCE, dammit.

My mother rounded up as many guests as she could before they made their escape and implored them to stay for just a little bit. We danced, and acted silly, and tried to forget all the mischance that had occurred. We were just as married, after all, and that was the important thing.

I swore that one day we would renew our vows in a lavish ceremony that I would plan down to the most minute detail and make sure that everything went off without a hitch. But as the years went by, it seemed less and less important. The wedding might have been an umitigated disaster, but the marriage most assuredly is not. So I'll count myself lucky and not spare a moment on regret for something that wouldn't have mattered anyway.

Two days later, we embarked on our honeymoon in Europe; first London, then Paris. And it was everything a girl could hope for. Romantic, exciting, sophisticated, carefree....sigh. When I look back, it is that time that I remember. Just the two of us, high on life and love and experiencing a great adventure.

Happy Anniversary honey.



I hope we have many more years and many more adventures together.