The night before our wedding, I admitted something to Jimmy I barely wanted to accept myself. I worried that I wouldn’t feel anything during our ceremony. After all, we’d just had a rehearsal that felt oddly normal. Our “normal” is pretty darn good – the night was full of laughter and smiles – but absent of butterflies. Where was the nervous energy? Where was the feeling of
ohmygosh, we’re getting MARRIED? I can barely switch shampoos without inner turmoil, so how was I about to get married yet not feel a hint of a freak-out?
The morning of the wedding, people asked how I slept and seemed almost disappointed when I replied that I slept just fine, thank you. They’d ask how I was, in that creepy tone usually reserved for those who just received horrible news (“How
ARE you?”), and seemed confused when I said I was just fine, and how are you today? I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of The Big Day, even as my hair was styled and make-up applied. So it was final: I lacked the Bride Gene. The editors of Bride Magazine were on their way to my house to repossess their December issue from my shelf.
But then four o’clock hit. The musicians began to play, the guests assembled in the next room. Suddenly I just had to know where Jimmy was. Was he out there, too? How’d he look? How’d he feel? Did I practice my vows enough? What if I choke?
Holy crap, this is my wedding! The feelings rushed over me so suddenly that I feared passing out. Tricia, my sister, maid-of-honor, and doctor extraordinaire, was reduced to teaching me the technique of exhaling. Years of med school and residency, and there she found herself giving the lesson of “So after you breathe in, you have to let it out, OK?” Twenty-eight years of breathing, and I found myself wanting to write that tip down. It totally worked.
When we heard the cue, the opening notes of
Canon in D, Tricia descended the stairs to the foyer below, and I would follow shortly after. I knew that once I made it down those stairs, Jimmy would be there, and I felt much more calm. When I rounded the corner and locked eyes with him, the nervousness ended and the tears began.
Ohmygosh, we’re getting MARRIED. I discovered my Bride Gene the second I met him in the foyer and he raised my hand to his lips, and I saw a tear fall down his cheek. Many more tears followed, from Jimmy, from me, a hearty contribution from our moms, and even from the officiant and photographer. And in the biggest surprise, even Dan (Jimmy’s brother and best man) cried. It’d be an easier feat to make Dick Cheney giggle.
The ceremony was perfect. Sure, we had the little goof-ups – we kissed way before our cue and laughed more than Emily Post would prefer – but that’s not what I mean. I mean that how it felt was perfect, how it was to us was perfect. Jimmy and I each believed that we were the luckiest person in the world because of who stood before us, and felt in awe of each moment. I looked at him as he smiled back at me, and realized that this was the best moment of my life; it was absolute happiness.
We cried and giggled our way through our vows we wrote for each other. I promised to love, to value, to bake his favorite cookies and keep trying to like football and horror movies. He promised to always support my dreams, personal and professional, and to remember all the silly traditions that make us who we are, like our mac 'n cheese dinner each Valentine's Day. Our readings came from both the Bible and the
Velveteen Rabbit, the sermon was penned by a Unitarian minister, the prayer given by a Methodist preacher friend, the blessing was the traditional Irish blessing as read by Jimmy’s Irish Catholic grandmother. The bits and pieces came together to create a ceremony uniquely “us,” and it felt exactly how I hoped. Perfect.
And now we’re four days married. Friends have asked if things feel any different between us. After all, since we've been together for ten years, a level of comfort and intimacy was achieved long ago. And I tell them that it still feels like us, only us on an exhale. It’s the jammy pants version of our relationship, and we wear it well.
