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august 20, 2000. (there are pictures galore if you'll just come this way) the wedding.
The wedding was perfect. It really was. For so many months, I'd been afraid that a sullen mood or a fit of temper would put me out of sorts on the day of days, but it didn't. It was fun from beginning to end. From my wake up at 6:30 (a half hour ahead of schedule) to my bed time at 3:30, I had a ball. Amazing.
The very first thing I learned that day was that I wasn't going to be able to eat. I tried to down a bowl of Vector before my first-class makeup job, but my stomach was having none of it. So I sipped Diet Coke and watched my maids transform. Honestly, at one point I started thinking of Scout as a model hired to play Scout for the day. Not that she's not breathtaking to begin with, but man...with a professional stylist working on her, she transcended everything. As did my other maids - the only difference being, I've seen them in formal situations, and I know just how amazing they look. Their corsetty Victorian dresses fitted perfectly and I was extremely happy to see them float around in something I chose.
And I felt like a movie star. No more, no less. When I looked in mirrors, I was surprised by the glamour a little less each time. That phrase, I felt like a million bucks, suddenly made a lot of sense. It made me very happy.
Little Spider, as advertised, didn't join us in our premium but expensive beauty machinations - instead, she was done up by her boyfriend's younger sister a.k.a. Alexi's current girlfriend. I bet Morgan a dip cone that he'd be in the apartment when we arrived to pick her up. I won. Fortunately, he stayed safely inside and there was no wedding day weirdness there. Thus we continued to have a kick-ass time on the way to the university. I flipped off aggressive pick-up trucks that cut us off on the highway, figuring that it would hurt all the more to get the bird from a bride in gloves. Yeah. You can take the girl out of the heavy-metal milieu, but - well, you know the rest.
When we arrived at the site, my kilted groomsmen were passing the time with an impromptu soccer game. It was very cute. My groom rushed up immediately, hyper as a squirrel and ready to be photographed. So we got the flowers sorted out, then the shawls, then the flower girl's headpiece, then the boutonnieres. (All of this was a complete surprise to me: we had given the florist colours & flower types, but had no real idea what the end result would be. They were gorgeous - spiky, round, solid in your hand and all-over colour. At various points during the wedding and the following day, I just stared at the flowers, wondering how they could be so perfect when I had no idea what made them so.)
At this point we were parked to one side of the grass circle, right in front of Sig Sam, and it suddenly struck me: I was trapped in a gigantic white dress. If I wanted to keep it nice for the ceremony in the afternoon, I was going to have to treat myself like a Faberge egg. Weeeird. I can't say that it came naturally to me, but it was fun ordering the maids around. "So who wants to carry my dress this time?" And such & such.
We eventually made it to the ornate doors of University College intact, and I shrugged off the Pink Bag of Justice to prepare for the "serious" pictures. At first it was just the Boy & I, standing by ourselves at the top & chatting while Jason the photographer sorted things out. And then as we looked down, we noticed that our group had quadrupled. A busload - no exaggeration, a busload - of Italian tourists were below us, smiling, clapping & taking our picture. The wedding party faced the group, alternately grinning & scowling like a strange staging of West Side Story. Dirk wandered around, happy as a kipper on a cracker, talking in a put-on brogue & posing with various people. Jason found the sight far more compelling than the two of us; as we laughed at the sight of our bewildered friends, he snapped pictures of the raucous encounter. "Kiss!" they chanted, first in Italian and then in English. We had no choice but to obey, smirking as we were. Some of the party later claimed that this moment made the entire wedding. All I know is that it was the funniest thing I've ever seen.
After this had died down somewhat, we got to the serious business of posed shots. Ha. He's a journalist-type guy...it was very informal. I must be the only bride in the world not to have a picture of myself contemplating my train. Despite this tragic oversight, I still got to go to all the cool little bits of masonry that make the college so special and dream my dreams of glamour. We ended up with about 4 sites for the price of one that day - UC, the Union courtyard, the Whitney courtyard & the Hart House courtyard - a major coup considering the ferocious warnings given to me when I booked the slot. As if that weren't enough, we got a couple of shots in at the "bride & groom" moose statues in front of William Ashley's on Bloor Street. This in itself was worth getting married.
But. By the time we were done, several hours had passed since my abortive attempt at breakfast, and I was feeling the slightest bit stretched-thin & surly. On the way home, I tried to decide what I wanted to do first at the house: use the bathroom, take off the dress, eat, or take an aspirin. I still hadn't decided by the time we sailed in. Fortunately, these things tend to resolve themselves. In no time at all, I was wearing jean shorts and eating a turkey sandwich, my garter straps hanging down past my shorts hem. Stacy insisted that this "look" made me the coolest bride ever. Hmm.
It was then, during this brief period of cool-down and rejuvenation that a mild funk set in. Oh well. I can't be happy every second of the day. The thing was, I couldn't find my wedding earrings, my legs were still itchy from the waxing, and the sandwiches were not sitting very well. Nervous bride stomach. A few deep breaths compensated. Then everybody was gone, we couldn't find the lucky sixpence, and it was time to go to the church.
My parents quarreled on the way. They were very tense, right up until the reception, and I tried to stay out of their way as much as possible. I was too busy having fun to be bogged down with details. No, really. Later on, my mother asked if she had given me any advice. "Yeah," I said rather flipantly, "find your own damn earrings." So while we were on the way to the church, I did the only sensible things: I concentrated on Sydney & tried to feel the impact of the moment. But I must confess that my last minutes as a single girl were rather unremarkable. Sydney wasn't feeling very talkative and I couldn't think of anything significant to save my life.
At the church we were shepherded into a little meeting room at the back to sign the licence and hide from the churchgoers. Sydney slouched into one of the big couches, her poufy dress hiked up to her knees, and stoically endured the compliments thrown her way. My maids said things that I didn't pay attention to. I, for my part, started hyperventilating.
It was horrible. For days and days I'd been perfectly calm, despite everyone and their mother-in-law asking me if I was nervous & why not. Throughout the whole morning I was calm, despite being unable to find my earrings or keep any food down. But when Agamemnon sailed into the small room, fully clothed in what he calls "the dress" to give me "my five-minute warning," things started to sail giddily away from self-control. My stomach started to roll over & over, even as my maids were hooking on my adjustable train. My vision swam. As if I wasn't nervous enough, Scout whispered, "I can't wait till you're my sister," and I nearly burst into tears. As we were called into the narthex I was scheming madly…could I find a way to delay the wedding for five minutes, while I calmed down?
Then I was standing at the bottom of the aisle, arm in arm with my father. Opera Sarah was half-way through "Ave Maria," and somehow it all went away. I started to smile and we began the walk.
God. How to describe that walk? At the rehearsal I spent a large amount of my attention keeping my pace moderate, thinking about timing and such. When it was zero hour I didn't take a single conscious step: I just drifted down the aisle, looking at the people around me. It was the biggest smile I've ever smiled in my whole life, and I turned it on everyone I could pick out. I felt like a klieg light. I felt like the Queen. Fast Eddie later told me that I transcended all clichés of bridal radiance, and another guest refereed to me as the happiest bride they'd ever seen. It was like that. It was transcendent.
And then it was over. I was at the top of the aisle, holding tight to the Boy's hand and Agamemnon was beginning the service.
I think the whole church part went wonderfully, but then again I was very familiar with the whole thing, after working on the program for months. Singing "Jerusalem" was just as fun as I thought it would be. It's funny that such a radical, militaristic & old-fashioned hymn should be almost a drinking song for me & my friends - it was as if we'd been allowed to sing "Barett's Privateers" in church. Communion, however, wasn't the big draw I'd thought it would be: none of my Catholic relatives got up to partake and there was quite a quantity of bread left over. I discovered a typo in the program, far too late to do anything about it. Oh well.
Marjorie was right. You only hear one word in ten when it's you at the foot of the altar. I worked very hard at making my voice right during the vows: strong & carrying & happy. I was dimly pleased with myself that it all worked out, that I had done my best. At several points in the service, I would draw up & think, "this is it! This is me getting married!" It wasn't possible for me to be more excited.
We held hands the whole time, which was not only sentimental, but strangely useful. Everybody's heard those stories about weddings where one party tries to jam the ring on another's finger, but we neatly avoided this fate: as it was mid-August, our hands were quite sweaty by the time we exchanged rings. I couldn't help but think at the time that this helped things considerably.
Inevitably, there came a point when it was done. The piper paced at the back of the church, a man I'd never met before. It was that first bagpipe note that marked the end of seriousness, that first "whooonk" that started the party. We marched into the bright sun, following the kilted man and radiating joy. Q quickly found me & wordlessly offered his flask. I've never enjoyed whiskey quite as much as I did at that moment.
next up...the bride still rock n' rolls at the reception
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