by Susan Wiggs
Dave and I got to the park and found a table under an awning. The place was deserted except for a few joggers and their dogs. As we watched the sun go down over Puget Sound, we read each other the personal vows we’d written in private that were too deep to share in front of an audience during our wedding ceremony. Dave read his vows with a shaky voice while tears of happiness and emotion poured down my face, and by the time I read what I had written we were both crying openly, bowled over by the end of our lives as single individuals and the beginning of our marriage. Here are the vows we wrote to each other, in their entirety:
My dearest Dave,
Tonight, the night before we become husband and wife…
KIDDING. (Somewhere out there my husband just totally FREAKED out.) Nobody will ever know what we said to one another. It’s important for every couple to have secret promises. You never know when you might have to cling to those promises as your only life raft in a sea of pain and struggle together. For me, making them only to Dave—without anyone else watching—made them much more profound and binding. I liked doing this the night before the wedding, which was also the last time we would see or speak to each other until we met before our officiant the next day, but it’s never too late to tell your One exactly why you’re going to stick by him or her forever and ever.
It was also a GREAT way to get some of the tears out of our systems, even though the next day I sobbed my way to the altar like a little baby. Yeesh.
After I wiped the tears from my face, Dave walked me to the street and put me in a car. We kissed—our last kiss before we were married—and he smiled at me. “See you tomorrow,” he said.
It was a pretty intense “See you tomorrow.” My stomach did a cartwheel-back-handspring-round-off and stuck the landing.
I told the cab to take me to the hotel, and Dave turned and walked back to the pub, where our party-happy friends were getting ready to paint the town. I don’t know much about what happened while I wasn’t there, but I’ve heard rumors of bathtubs full of booze, a friend doing the worm in the middle of a dance floor and a stolen unicycle. I won’t lie—I’m pretty proud of my friends. They know how to do things right.
At that moment, though, I wasn’t thinking about the drunken antics being performed in my honor. I was getting married tomorrow. I was getting married tomorrow. CRIPES, I WAS GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW!
The taxi dropped me off at the hotel—I gave the driver a 300 percent tip—and I skittered up to my room. Inside, I found my three best friends, Molly, Lindsey and Aubrey. We spent the rest of the night eating pizza and executing the age-old girly slumber party activity of giggling and talking about sex. And my girls watched over me like mother hens, doing their best to stand in for my mom, who was wrangling extended family members at her own house. Aubrey, the wedding expert among us, told me to chug water to stay hydrated and commanded me to sleep on my back so I didn’t get creases on my face from the pillowcase. Lindsey, the most organized, laid out my robe, shoes and jewelry for the next day. Molly, the nurturer of our group, put together a bag of snacks for tomorrow and made sure the hotel knew what I wanted for breakfast in the morning.
It was perfect.
I fell asleep with no trouble, my mind calm with an undercurrent of excitement and nerves.
In the morning, the sun fell across my lids and woke me at 6:30. I rolled over and saw that Molly, lying next to me, was also awake.
“It’s your wedding day,” she whispered.
My wedding day. It was my wedding day.
Excitedly, I put on my robe and slippers and took the Luna Bar Molly held out for me. Aubrey told me to put on lip balm to make my lips supple for the makeup artist, and we trooped out of the room to the elevator for a ride up to the hotel’s stunning penthouse suite, where we would be getting ready.
I felt calm and happy.
The elevator doors opened and inside was a girl about our age, wearing a lime-green, satin gown and matching shoes. She smiled at us, her freshly made-up face glowing warmly. She can tell it’s my wedding day, I thought. I must be emitting bride signals!
I reached out to press the elevator’s “PH” button to take us to the top floor, where the sixteen-hundred-square-foot bridal suite waited, but stopped because the button was already illuminated. It was like the universe could read my mind!
We rode to the top floor, and when the doors opened, the girl in the lime-green dress stepped out with us. She must be staying on this floor, too, I thought.
Molly, Lindsey, Aubrey and I started walking down the hallway toward the suite. We were a little early and knew that nobody else—the makeup artist, the hairstylist, my mom, the other bridesmaids—would be there yet, but we were going to call room service and have our breakfast delivered.
As we rounded the corner, I could see the elegant double doors to the suite. I paused, realizing we didn’t have a key to the room yet. As I turned to ask one of my girls to run down and grab a key from the front desk, I spotted the girl in the lime-green dress.
Her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate updo and I got a lovely view from the back as she stepped by us, murmuring, “Excuse me” and flashing one last smile.
Wait—why was she passing us? The only room in this hallway was the bridal suite.
She reached into a clutch made from the same lime-green satin as her dress and shoes and pulled out a key card.
I felt the air whoosh out of my lungs as she popped the key into the slot on the door of the bridal suite—my bridal suite—and pushed the handle.
As the doors swung open, I looked inside. Eight girls wearing identical lime-green dresses twittered around another young woman in a robe just like mine, sipping a mimosa and having her hair done.
My mind was blank with confusion. I didn’t understand what was happening until Aubrey spoke. “It’s another bride,” she said flatly.
Another bride?
Another bride?!
There I was, in the buff under my robe, being punched in the face with the news that my precious princess suite had been invaded by an enemy bride and her disgustingly well-coordinated bridesmaid minions.
Now, many brides would probably have reacted with tears of sadness, fists of rage or squeals of cosmic pain. I waited for my own reaction.
But it never came. Calmly, I turned to my friends and said, “Okay! Let’s go talk to the front desk!”
Fifteen minutes later, we figured out that the rogue bridal party had called late last night and booked the room through a night receptionist who didn’t know it was reserved for the following morning.
Thirty seconds after that, Jody and her wedding squad swarmed into the lobby of the hotel, ready to do battle. I don’t know what she said to the people at the hotel, but the next thing I knew I was ensconced in a limo, being whisked away to a suite at the Four Seasons, where I would be getting ready instead.
Was it as roomy as the original bridal suite? No.
Did I give a rip? Definitely not.
I still got to be surrounded by my girls and my mom as I got buffed and fluffed.
I still got to sit quietly and slowly ease into the most important day of my life.
I still got to run an IV line of champagne into my bloodstream.
Sure, the whole episode with the doppelgänger bride put us behind schedule by about an hour, and we took fewer bridal portraits with my bridesmaids. Ultimately, we ended up running out of time for family portraits, something I still regret. But our photographer managed to take incredible candid shots of all my loved ones enjoying the wedding. And I would take the genuine smiles and emotion in those photographs over plastered-on, posed portraits any day.
The hotel, of course, was profusely apologetic about the whole situation, but I was happy to forgive. It was an innocent mistake—and they more than made up for the issue by offering a ton of freebies the next time we stayed there.
The moral of the story? Something will go wrong. Accept it, move on and practice saying “So what?” when
someone makes a mistake. Or sic your mom on the off ender. I didn’t have to pull out the mother-guns on the hotel, but don’t think for a second that she wasn’t ready to rip open someone’s jugular with her French manicure on my command.
SUSAN
There was a moment when we were getting ready for the big entrance, putting the finishing touches on hair and makeup, poofing the dress, straightening the pearls, putting the veil in place, when a thoughtful expression softened Elizabeth’s face. “This is my prettiest day,” she said. “I’ll never be prettier than I am today. It’s all downhill from here.”
And I thought, Oh, honey.
Far be it from me to tell the bride on her wedding day that she’s wrong. She’ll discover it on her own, anyway.
It’s true that every happy bride is beautiful. But her prettiest day? Not even close.
Because here’s the truth. When you find the love of your life, the puzzle piece that completes you, the one person who gives you that deep sense of joy, then every day is your prettiest day.
Each morning when you get up, he will look at you and something magical will happen. No matter what day it is, he will see true beauty. As time goes by, your beauty will only deepen and intensify in his eyes. This includes—but is not limited to—mornings when you’re late and yelling at him and racing to catch the bus. Late nights when you’ve stayed up, arguing about nothing. When you’re eight months’ pregnant and bloated like a tick. When you’re crying over a lost cat or fighting with your mother. And when you turn forty, and seventy-three, and when you win an award or crash the car or you’re sick in bed or grieving a loss. To the love of your life, those are all your prettiest days.
Today is just the first of many such days, and I’m glad I got to witness it.
Maybe those really were your prettiest shoes, though. Man, those wedding shoes were something.
* * *
CHEAT SHEET
PREOCCUPIED WITH MAKING SURE YOUR OFFICIANT
BEGINS THE CEREMONY PRECISELY TWENTY-SEVEN
SECONDS AFTER 3:34 P.M.? HERE’S YOUR CHEAT SHEET:
Okay, yeah, something will probably go wrong on your wedding day. I had heard this before, but I tried to convince myself that my day was so well planned-out that everything would go off without a hitch. But I also learned that nothing—nothing—will keep you from ending up married to your partner in the end. Unless you leave him standing at the altar. Um…so don’t do that. Put down the paper bag you’re hyperventilating into and listen to me: No matter what happens, it will be your wedding day. You have my permission to write me a vicious email if your wedding day isn’t the happiest day of your life to date (apparently there will be even more awesome days…I’m still waiting on that one).
It’s great to have a wedding timeline, but don’t get so attached to it that you’ll break out in hives when things get a little behind schedule.
In the hours leading up to and during your wedding day, try to remain conscious of the moment. You won’t recognize most life-changing events until after they’re over—but your wedding day is a chance to reflect on the cosmic shift you’re experiencing as it happens. Take advantage. Keep your eyes open, and cherish every second.
* * *
13
THE CEREMONY
Oh, yeah! You’re actually going to end up married! The moment you’ll become husband and wife
ELIZABETH
It’s called a wedding because two people are getting married—you and your One. Try to keep this in mind when you’re freaking out about the lining in your bridesmaids’ shoes.
In the months leading up to the wedding, I started having flash-backs to stories my married friends had told me. While the details varied, an anecdote I’d heard over and over was the one about the first step down the aisle: “I had been WIGGING out all day,” said one coworker. “But as soon as I saw my guy at the end of the aisle, I forgot all my worries and stayed calm for the whole ceremony.”
The vast majority of the wives had a story about an unexpected change that had come over them as they began that long, slow walk toward their future husbands. I didn’t give it much thought until my own wedding drew near, but suddenly I found myself obsessing over what profound shift I would experience as I turned the corner and saw Dave standing at the altar, waiting for me in front of all our guests. I envisioned my whole range of emotions and tried to guess where I would end on the spectrum. Would I be as calm and graceful as my friend, Molly, had been, smiling radiantly at various audience members to my left and right as I walked down the aisle? Would I gaze steadily and confidently at my future husband, as Dave’s cousin had? Would I smile through a glistening veil of tears? Grin and laugh at the wonder of the moment? Silently mouth “I love you” at Dave? Pause and embrace my parents and grandparents? Hold myself like a regal queen, secure in her power and womanhood?
Notice that in all these ruminations, the bride is doing something meaningful and touching.
She’s definitely not embarrassing herself or anything like that.
I never even considered the possibility that I would screw up the walk down the aisle.
Okay, so throughout the day leading up to the 3:00 p.m. wedding, I was chill as a cucumber. I calmly glided through the hotel room confusion, through unseasonably hot weather, through emotionally charged moments with my mom. Moments before I walked down the aisle, I sat in a back room with my dad making jokes and sipping champagne to calm the butterflies in my stomach. But I felt serene. Collected. Ready.
Jody, our wedding planner, poked her head in the door and said, “It’s time.”
I looked at my dad, grinned, took a deep breath and walked down the hall that led to the atrium where I would be getting married.
I tucked my hand into the warm crook of Daddy’s arm as I approached the end of the aisle. Nobody could see me yet, but I could hear the strains of “Morning Has Broken” by Cat Stevens beginning to play. Jody quickly reached out and positioned my bouquet of white hydrangea, fluffed my train and smiled at me.
We turned the corner. I looked up and saw a room of nearly two hundred people, all looking at me. At the end of the aisle in front of me, beneath a gauzy white canopy, I saw Dave.
And I lost it.
Not just a little.
With a snort, I heaved out a giant sob.
Inside my head, the alarm bells went off. Wait, you were calm just a second ago! Stop! Stop crying! You KNOW you have an ugly cry face! Don’t ruin the photos!
Impulsively, I jerked my hand—the one holding the bouquet—up to my face, a lame attempt to hide from two hundred pairs of eyes looking at me. I glanced at the DJ to my right. What did I think I was going to do? Make him stop the music and start the whole thing over again?
Crap, I thought. I suck.
I choked out a couple more sobs—the squeaky, high-pitched kind—and gulped in a huge breath of air. Smile through the glittering veil of tears! I desperately told myself. I tried to wrench the sides of my mouth upward, but my cheeks quivered and fought the effort, my tearful pout overpowering any attempt to look pretty. I bit the inside of my lips and attempted to force my face into submission, but no avail.
All this happened in the span of about three seconds.
My dad looked down at me with a worried expression as he felt my first step on the aisle waver.
Suddenly, I realized how silly my internal monologue was.
So I was going to sob down the aisle. So what? Sure, maybe I’d look like a medieval wench with a sizable dowry being forced into an arranged marriage, but whatever. It was my wedding. These would all turn into fond memories.
Four seconds.
I lowered my bouquet and looked up at Dave. I held his gaze as best I could through my streaming tears while I clutched my dad’s arm and continued my walk down the aisle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friend Ashley crying with me, and as I passed her I muttered, “I’m not gonna make it!”
I don’t know what I meant. Not going to make it down
the aisle? Not going to make it through the wedding without crying? Not going to make it out of this crazy world alive?
I don’t know, but I heard Ashley laugh and I felt the butterflies in my stomach settle. I smiled at Dave as best I could, and before I knew it I was standing in front of him at the altar.
I turned to my dad and listened to him respond, “Her mother and I do,” when our officiant asked who brought this woman to be given to this man.
I won’t lie; my dad looked pretty miserable.
My dad’s one of those guys who panics when his little girl cries. He never knows what to do with all the emotion, with the wrenching heartstrings, with the sprinkler system that has just started to squirt out of his daughter’s face.
I caught his eye and pointed to the very top of my head, a gesture I’ve done since I was little—a silent demand for a kiss on the head. He leaned forward and planted one on me, reached out and shook Dave’s hand, then helped me step up onto the dais.
This was it. The wedding had begun.
I dabbed at the tears under my eyes with my handkerchief, took Dave’s hands and turned to our officiant to listen to his comments on the nature of marriage.
The rest of the ceremony was most definitely not a blur, though I know some brides say theirs was. I remember every second of the thirty-odd minutes that turned me into a wife. I remember the audience laughing as I wiped a bead of sweat from Dave’s cheek (it was ninety-six degrees and he was in a tuxedo—can you blame the guy?). I remember glancing over Dave’s shoulder and seeing his dad wink at me. I remember being the only one who noticed the single tear that fell down Dave’s cheek as his cousins and uncle performed an acoustic arrangement of “In My Life” by the Beatles. I remember our best friends, Molly and Jesse, carefully leading us through a hand-holding ceremony that I had planned on having in my wedding since high school. I remember hugging Molly after she finished her reading and whispering “Oh, my God!” into her ear because I could barely contain myself. I remember the feeling of tears filling my eyes as I began to say my vows to Dave, forcing me to pause and collect myself so I could get through them without barfing emotion all over him. I remember Dave’s great-uncle talking about breaking my hymen—yep, someone said hymen during my wedding ceremony—before Dave and I performed the Jewish glass-stomping ceremony. I remember seeing my dad shaking with laughter at the word hymen. I remember the overwhelming feeling of hearing man and wife as we turned toward the audience and walked out of the auditorium. And I remember looking at my mom and seeing her face wreathed in such joy that I knew—despite all the head-butting and strife—she was proud of me, proud of my husband and proud of the beautiful wedding we had created together.
