Sorry this is late, folks. I know this post has very little to do with writing, but it has a lot to do with romance, so I figured it would be all right.
As of Thursday, I will have been married for fifteen years.
Husband and I kind of eloped during my Senior year in college, during, of all things, midterms. I say “kind of eloped” because we had planned on a big June wedding, but then we had this conversation:
Me: I think I might die if I have to invite all these people to the wedding. I’ll barf on my dress. I know I will.
Hubs: So don’t invite them all.
Me: My parents will kill me. And your mom told me her tentative list has 4oo people on it. Do you even know 400 people?
Me: Wanna go to the Chapel of Elvis? We could just go to Vegas. Let’s just forget all the shenanigans.
Hubs: You have a dress. You might regret not having a church wedding. And our moms will kill you.
Me: I don’t care about the wedding. I just want to be married.
Hubs: Me, too.
Long pause while we look at one another.
Me: September is a nice month get married.
Hubs: I want to be married yesterday, not a year from now.
Me: What are you doing on the 27th?
Hubs: Going to my Sargent’s wedding.
Me: What time?
Me: What are you doing after that? Say around 4:00?
Hubs: Um, going to another wedding?
Me: Really? Whose?
So that’s what we did. We called everyone up and told them we were getting married in three weeks. I arranged for a photographer, got flowers, ordered a cake, and got the church (a dear friend’s father was a minister) in the space of a single day.
We still upset everyone, who assumed I was pregnant. Several people said it wouldn’t last, and told us so.
For all of that, it was the perfect wedding for us. I thought I’d be sick–everyone told me I’d be nauseous–but I wasn’t. In fact, that’s me, in my wedding dress, eating french fries. More than that, I knew every single person at the wedding, and I loved them all. I have a picture of everyone who came. Our grandmothers, all of whom have since passed on. My friends and my family. I don’t think there’s another picture anywhere of everyone in the family. We’re never all in the same place at the same time.
Since then, hubs and I have been together through all the ups and downs. Graduate degrees, new jobs, buying houses, two kids, the deaths of dear friends. We’ve had fights and disagreements, but we’ve supported one another through all of that. He’s supported me through every crack pot idea I’ve ever had, including when I told him I was going to start writing romance novels in my non-existent free time. He signed me up for my first conference, and listened to me for hours while I practiced my first pitches. He even hit send when I started cold querying.
So, as I sit here and write a wedding scene, and I wonder if my characters are being too impulsive, or if the silly scenario they’re in is actually plausible, I remember back to that day, fifteen years ago, when I ate french fries in my wedding dress. The day I looked over at Hubs and we cracked jokes during our wedding ceremony, when I laughed until I cried, drank too much champagne, never got around to eating the cake, and told my grandmother the dirtiest joke I’d ever heard–and she laughed.
My decision to get married the way I did was not in my five-year plan. In fact, Hubs wasn’t in the five-year plan at all, when I first started establishing five-year plans my Freshman year in college.
And yet, of all the plans I’ve ever made, this is the one that worked out the best.