Echoes of wedding bells

About a thousand and a half eons ago, I got married.
There were witnesses and officially signed paperwork. Vows and rings were exchanged. There was even a (surprise) bouquet of roses gifted to me by the groom.

Aside from a technical ceremony in a government office, there wasn't what most people consider a wedding. My dress was a sundress purchased at the last minute at a closeout store in bright spring colors. The groom wore his best button up long sleeve plaid shirt. Our rings were some kind of silver that my skin had a reaction to within days of wearing. There was no reception aside from 2 of my friends grabbing lunch with us at our favorite mom & pop tex-mex place. My husband's best friend at the time didn't even bother to take off work from the bowling alley to show up. And our wedding night dinner? Fast food drive thru on the way to a hotel we maxed out our credit cards to stay in for a few nights. We were so freaking young and naive. It blows my mind now.

We didn't have two dimes to rub together. None of our families approved. And contrary to the catty rumor mill, I was not knocked up. Even if my folks had been pleased, they certainly couldn't afford to spring for the wedding of my dreams. Or even a barefoot backyard one. We (my hubby and I) were, in fact, a gnat's ass hair away from being homeless upon our return from the mini-honeymoon. By the grace of no less than 2 deceased grandparents and a slew of guardian angels pushed to their limits, we managed to pool enough resources to split an apartment with a friend and sleep on a mattress on the floor in the apt that night. The ink on our lease probably wasn't even dry. Eventually and begrudgingly, each side of parents contributed the odd bed frame, love seat and cooking implements. Years later when I happily purchased a matched set of silverware (without plastic handles), an in-law of mine pointed out that if I'd had a real wedding and registered at a store I could have had something that nice sooner.

With love and support like that, how surprised are we really that I eloped?

Here's where we get back to this horrific, first world problem. I dreamed of a poofy dress, the perfect cake, all of it, most of my life. Not because I needed a man. Not to fulfill some expectation of female excess. No, because I wanted the big party and the big dress with the right guy. I wanted a celebration - good food, good music, a good time. I didn't expect my parents to get a second and third mortgage - I'd been in and gone to weddings that were paid for that way. All divorced now, FYI.

After the thrill of being married!! settled into domestic life, I resolved that someday we'd renew our vows. In a pretty, fluffy dress. You know, for me. Hubby's got a nice suit or two that work just fine. Anniversaries 5 & 10, solid numbers for renewals in my mind, came and went. Life happened. There were no babies to pass on a beautiful wedding dress to. Our social circle narrowed. I eyed a little 20-seater chapel that was part of a larger church. Did I mention I've never gone cake tasting? No top tier ever sat in my freezer for the next anniversary.

My husband, as I honestly would expect, is ambivalent about the whole idea. He's not the guy who tears up with joy. If I were to make this happen, it's up to me.

I don't even think the majority of my siblings would attend. That alone cuts out almost half the guest list. And I was in all their weddings. I even helped prep, cook and clean up for one of them.

My parents aren't getting any younger. It is a very real possibility my mom wouldn't even be able to attend something like that given her current rate of decline.

But I realize it's still on my bucket list. I still want the dress. And the cake. And all 8 guests to hang out afterwards. I still want that one glorious party. To tip the hat to 2 young kids fresh out of college who didn't know what the hell they were getting into. And amazingly enough still have a lot of fun (and eye rolling) together.