On an otherwise ordinary April Thursday, my almost sister-in-law and I drove from South to North Dakota so I could marry my fiancé six weeks before my wedding. Like all of my wedding plans, it was made impulsively with questionable logic.
Nine months before our New Year’s wedding date, my fiancé, James, and I decided to get married in nine weeks, for no particular reason except that we were tired of not being married and had no other plans for Memorial Day. We called our families and asked them to abandon any Memorial picnics or parades and join us for a destination wedding at an all inclusive resort in brutally hot Cozumel, Mexico. By some miracle, everyone agreed, including those family members we hoped might perhaps be unavailable.
Conveniently, the Presbyterian denomination allows female pastors, so we asked James’s sister, Reverend Michelle, to officiate our wedding. I expected this to be a symbolic role, as only a Mexican judge speaking Spanish can perform a legally binding marriage in Cozumel. Imagine my surprise when the reverend called to announce she was driving from New York to South Dakota to marry James and I six weeks before the wedding. It seemed to mean a lot to her, so I said, “sure,” which is how I ended up in Williston, North Dakota on a Saturday morning waiting for Dirty Mike to finish his English muffin and witness our marriage vows before heading out to inspect an oil rig.
James moved to North Dakota when his Uncle Brian recommended him for position managing the North Dakota branch of an oil well tubing inspection company. Brian’s son, Dirty Mike, moved up with him to work at the company and both boys moved into Brian’s house before his drunken ranting and raving each night drove James out of the house and into another town. Still, we first asked Uncle Brian to serve as James’s “best man,” not out of courtesy, but because he refused to speak to James’s father for a decade when he didn’t ask Brian to be best man. Fortunately, we delayed our wedding a day and Brian needed to fly out to New York, so we were left with Dirty Mike and Aunt Connie as our witnesses.
When I arrived at their home to get married, Dirty Mike was wearing sweatpants splattered with oil. You mustn’t think I cared about anyone’s wedding day best. I got married in an Under Armour T-shirt and running shoes. I noticed Dirty Mike’s sweatpants because they were the company sweatpants James had given me six months ago that Mike mistook for his own and irrevocably stained with oil, a memory I was meditating on from the couch as I watched he and his mother sign our marriage license.
Because we drove two hours to Williston, we had no choice but to dine at the much-anticipated, newly-opened Culvers, where I ate better food at my “reception” than at every other wedding I’ve attended. Of course, it still wasn’t quite as good as the South Dakota Culver’s in my hometown, but as the only Culver’s in North Dakota, it was a treat for James. As my treat, I shared a giant chocolate Oreo volcano waffle cone with my new husband, an indulgence, which, in turn, made me nauseous the entire two-hour trip back from Williston because I don’t eat milk products. Yet, oblivious to my upcoming suffering, I enjoyed my chicken tender kid’s meal, and it crossed my mind, as I was eating, that I had succeeded in throwing out almost every expectation of the modern wedding.
I am the oldest child in my family. I am older than my brother and sister. I am older than all of my cousins. My parents were both oldest children. Being the oldest endows one with certain inalienable rights and privileges. When we were toddlers, my grandparents gave my cousin, Brock, and I toddler-sized vehicles. I got a minivan; he got a truck. Being six months older, I was also six months bigger and stronger, so when he got in the driver’s side of his truck, I got in the passenger’s side and slid him right back out the door. Taking things by force is a right and privilege of the oldest. Other privileges include staring in the first family events – baptisms, graduations, and weddings.
Before I changed my wedding date, Brock’s wedding was scheduled for six months before mine. Again, I pushed him out the driver’s door, flat on his ass. I re-scheduled my wedding for one month before his, leaving him only three months to change his date. My dad volunteered to tell his sister, Brock’s mother, about my date change. I asked him to make sure everyone knew we would be first, as a matter of family pride. Apparently, it didn’t need rubbing in. “It’s the first thing everybody has said when I told them.” I wanted to tell Brock myself, but his mother beat me to it. When he accused me of “wedding sniping” him, I sent a text back quoting the legendary, fictional NASCAR driver, Ricky Bobby: “If you’re not first, you’re last.”
At Christmas, one year before my original date, Brock’s fiancée, Kelsey, wanted to discuss “The Wedding Planning Checklist,” of which she has half-way through and I should be just beginning, as wedding planning takes a full twelve months. Customarily, when a girl is engaged to be married, she must embrace wedding planning as an all-encompassing one-year hobby. I embraced a different hobby that I took exceptional pleasure in – answering all inquires about my wedding with lectures on why the wedding industry is ruining marriage, manners, and society-at-large. For the sake of family unity, I spared Kelsey most of the rants, but I did respectfully explain to her that I would not be joining her in any of the following tortures: individually wrapping color coordinated M&M candies in 200 miniature tulle pouches, searching for ribbons that are neither plum nor dark byzantium but eggplant, shopping for one eggplant dress that seven body-conscious bridesmaids will agree on, hot gluing rhinestones and beads on 50 centerpiece vases, and hand-lettering 200 dip-dyed lace invitations. The list goes on.
Since I’ve been engaged, most women find my wedding planning progress to be the most interesting thing about me, and they ask me questions. I cherish two favorites: “Where are you registered?” and “When is your bridal shower?” I am floored that Miss Manners has allowed for these two things, and I’ve enjoyed the platform to share my indignation. How is it acceptable to not only have a party, the purpose of which is for people to “shower” you with gifts, but then to also give strict and specific demands as to which gifts you expect to receive? Showers are parties to celebrate a girl getting married at another party where all the guests will celebrate again and bring another gift. People are literally having a party to celebrate a wedding, which is itself a party to celebrate a marriage, though apparently not enough of one. I’ve never understood it and never heard a satisfactory answer as to why women who have lived on their own and cooked for themselves for several years need all new housewares when they marry. Has everyone been eating off paper plates since they left home? When people are especially persistent about their need to give me a wedding gift and my obligation to tell them what it should be, I ask for grapefruit spoons. (And I really do want a set. They are like all-purpose camping utensils for classy wealthy people.)
While offending people who ask about my wedding planning takes up a chunk of my time, it certainly doesn’t make up for all the time I could be spending making tedious and unnoticed table centerpieces, learning calligraphy and flower arranging, ordering expensive but disappointing catered food, debating the merits of different stationaries, and purchasing party favors that nobody will actually take home. It has also spared my fiancé from the biweekly bride-to-be meltdowns that I’ve heard secondhand from Brock. Instead, I’ve been able to spend my time doing the things I consider important – finishing another semester, assistant directing a high school play, applying for summer jobs, and continuing to spend time that doesn’t revolve around my wedding with my fiancé, family, and friends.
As I was driving back to South Dakota for school, after getting married on Saturday, I realized that my sister-in-law’s plan put me in wedding limbo. Technically, I’m married, but I’m still finishing school in South Dakota and waiting for the symbolic ceremony in front of our families in Mexico. I have a marriage license, but no ring. My name is changed only on one piece of paper. For the next six weeks before my “wedding,” I have no wedding-related stress and preparation to deal with. The resort takes care of the details. I can’t even be nervous about legally binding myself with another person. It’s all taken care of.
Perhaps I went about getting married in a way too eccentric and spontaneous for most brides, but I believe I succeeded in not getting so caught up in planning a princess-perfect wedding that overshadowed the truly important things.
And I’ll be damned if I wasn’t first.