The whole day was one big, beautiful, peach-and-pewter blur. Just like everyone said it would be.
I can recall flashes: Champagne toasts before the ceremony with my precious girls and moms. Reminders from Nette to reapply my lip color. The officiant making us laugh as we nervously stood before him. A disgruntled flower girl who will one day be mortified by her crossed-arms, pouting stance during our ceremony. Eating our dinner privately upstairs (and managing to not spill red wine on myself thanks to being covered with a tablecloth). Exiting to a raucous noise of synchronized party-horn-honking and shouts of cheer. The kaleidoscope of memories is an amazing treasure.
There was an outpouring of love and advice from family and friends that night, reminding us to treasure each moment of the day… and to treasure each other for life. Then the very next moment Jersey and I were swept into a conga line. I can vaguely remember the lightning quick, strobe-like flashes from our photographer that made us feel like our night was Red Carpet Status.
Amazingly, I did not cry buckets. I did however, completely tear up as my dad walked me down the aisle and I only had eyes for the love of my life. He looked dashing in his perfectly tailored suit and I arrowed towards him and the rest of our lives. The joyful shimmer in my eyes remained, but not a drop leaked. Which wasn’t the case with everyone else… happy tears were abundant that day and night. My mom admitted she held up fine until “Halo” came on as we cut our cake. My dad and I ever so stubbornly, but barely, held ourselves together as we danced with wobbly smiles to “I Loved Her First”. The Best Man and Father of the Groom were brushing tears as discreetly as possible during my vows. Which just means I killed it. The Groom, my heart, was touched so deeply by his Best Man’s speech that he shed a few manly tears, too. But I was just so inexplicably, overwhelmingly and unshakably happy that my tears stayed dormant.
Despite all my worrying, nothing disastrous happened. There were curveballs, yes, but they didn’t detract from the day or make me freak out. One thing did hit me like a ton of bricks at 10pm that night, when I was being unlaced from my dress… I suddenly remembered that I had bought a veil. A gorgeous, fingertip-length, trimmed with pearls and crystals veil. And I didn’t wear it. On my own wedding day, I forgot to wear my veil. The split second of, “oh, shit” quickly dissolved into, “oh, well”. There are worse things that could have happened and the only people who realized it were me, my girls and my mom and dad. Sentimentally, I just think that I wasn’t meant to wear a veil on that day. And that someone else is meant to have it. (hint, hint, my bestie staring down a 2015/2016 wedding!)
We laughed, danced, visited each table, thanked everyone for traveling so far to be with us, posed for endless pictures and were swept away at the end of the night into a cloud of love and laughter. Looking back, I can barely recall the shade of peach of my flowers that we agonized over, or the peach underlay at our guest tables that I feared would make the room “bleeding peach” instead of gentle touches. In the end, none of it mattered. What mattered was that I promised myself to the man I choose to share my life with. And he promised himself to me, too. The rest was gravy.
Is it different now, being married to Jersey? Yes and no. It’s certainly way more REAL, as I proceed with the details of taking his last name. But you know when it hits me the most? Each time I catch a glance of that ring on his left hand. Every flash of his white gold band grabs my eye, makes my heart tug and I’m flooded with joy, disbelief and gratefulness. I am so, so lucky.
I have married my person.