by Hope Tarr
The wedding was small, wonderful, and utterly us. And, really, what more can you ask of a wedding?
So when people ask me if I think that a whirlwind romance is realistic, I have to answer yes. After all, twenty years and two kids later, mine is still going strong!
J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner and J.K. Beck) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of more than forty novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres. Praised by Publishers Weekly as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations,” J.K. writes a range of stories including super sexy romances, paranormal romance, chick lit suspense and paranormal mommy lit. Visit her website at www.juliekenner.com.
Wedding 101 for the Anti-Bridezilla
By Patience Bloom
I’m not sure this is happening. Did I wake up in a dream? A charming, handsome man is sitting across from me in my favorite Mexican restaurant. We’re eating chips and salsa. Somehow, my date has helped me tolerate dining out again—a miracle for a hermit girl like me. The sun is blazing hard, making the seats sticky, and I regret wearing my ill-fitting khaki skirt rather than an airy sundress. The city heat usually irritates me, though not so much now. This night is different, certainly no ordinary Thursday evening.
I take in every detail, since people will ask about our story. In my mental log, I note the June humidity; Sam’s sports jacket, which covers up his shirt drenched from nervousness; the frozen margarita he just ordered to combat those nerves; the relatively empty restaurant since we’re on my geriatric schedule.
I sip my Sprite because my mouth is dry, though I mostly need something to do with my hands, and pretend to be oblivious of Sam Bloom’s imminent marriage proposal. We girls often smell these things from miles away, so I’m able to remain calm while he puts a beautiful ring on my finger, and asks that question. You know the one.
“Of course, I’ll marry you,” I answer.
There is no squealing, no bended knee, shaking, or the hand to mouth with me crying over the opening of the box. A violinist doesn’t serenade us, nor does my entire family or roster of friends materialize to congratulate us. No one around us sees our engagement. In fact, this wedding proposal is casual, sedate, intimate—like an everyday occurrence in our brief courtship.
As I stare at him, I’m a little stunned. How did this happen? A year ago, I had given up on dating, didn’t even want a boyfriend. Romance was too much trouble, and I liked my own company much more. Sam changed the order of things with one Facebook friend request. Ten months later, I’m madly in love with him and about to get married. The universe has a way of surprising you. Between you and me, though, I am happy just to have him in my life. We could live in sin forever and that would be fine with me.
Oh, who am I kidding? I love this new rock on my finger!
A few minutes after Sam Bloom proposes to me, my new bridal situation demands my immediate attention. Instead of glorying in our love, I let Sam temporarily fall off my radar as long-dormant girly thoughts take control of my mental synapses: sparkly bride earrings, bridal hair, beautiful bridal dress, a day where everyone says how beautiful I look, signing everything as Mrs. Bloom, that “smug married” smile. Even more superficialities race through my brain, such as:
White is not my color. Forget ivory, too. That’s like a consolation color when you don’t look great in white.
And yet, I love the idea of a veil—especially since it might hide my crow’s-feet. Maybe a nice white veil could be worn at all times! It’ll be my thing.
Will I be a bridezilla? Just once, it might be fun to scream my rage while immersed in tulle and, please, let it be filmed.
Can I do the wedding-cake tasting now?
Since I’ve never read a bridal magazine, what’s proper for an over-the-hill bride? What in marshmallow-fluff-mermaid-ruching hell do I do?
It’s like my life flashing before my eyes, though for a delightful cause. Oh, the possibilities! Me, me…I am going to be a bride!
As I look down at the ring once again, I feel a strange excitement, an urgent need to start right away. Forget the rest of dinner, I’m getting married. Since I’m not so good with crowds, Sam and I will have a quiet wedding down at City Hall, like next week. Or I could sacrifice my people-phobia for a gigantic, themed wedding with everyone—togas, circus performers, mead. Perhaps I’ll pull a Julia Roberts and invite people to a party that turns into a wedding. Whatever happens, this is a joyous event.
While Sam wolfs down his burrito and eats most of mine, more rose-colored wedding visions dance in my head. Beaded bodices. Jordan almonds. A long train behind me. Flower girls making everyone laugh. An elegant hairstyle. Putting simple gold bands on our fingers. Dancing to eighties music. More cake. I’ll smile through it all. And I won’t faint like on those YouTube videos. No insanity whatsoever when I get married.
Sam and I fit so well together. We can’t help but have harmonious nuptials. At home, he cooks, I eat, and then he does the dishes. He checks up on me during the day, just to say hello. I make the bed, he messes it up at least three times for his nap, post-nap nap, and sleeping at night. After he hauls down the laundry, I iron and starch his shirts. We even go to the gym together, wave and smile at each from across the room—me on my treadmill, him on his stair-climber. It’s practically a Hart to Hart affair. Now our felicity is about to be written in stone. I get to do this for the rest of my life. There’s a deep peace over this new journey, but also, it’s wildly uncharted territory for me.
So, once Sam and I walk home, tell our relatives and change our Facebook statuses to “Engaged,” I do what I do best: make lists and break down the new project. The very first lesson I need to learn is:
Try not to drive the groom so crazy that he bails. Getting married might turn me into a Tasmanian devil of insecurity beforehand. And because of my job as an editor of romance novels, I know all about the jilted-at-the-altar situation. The sweet bride has put blood, sweat and tears into her relationship, but the fiancé never shows up. If that isn’t enough, Four Weddings and a Funeral is a graduate course in how not to get married. Sam proposed to a moderately sane woman. I vow to stay calm, striking out on my own in my Wedding 101 education. Several truths become clear straight off:
Weddings cost a bajillion dollars. Oh, the sticker shock. It takes a lot of work to put on a wedding, even a small one—and a whole lot of Benjamins. Forget about putting your children through college. Or buying a house. If you want a wedding, be prepared to fork it over. You can cry over your glass of tap water, because that’s all you can afford.
If you’re of a certain age, stop referring to yourself as an over-the-hill bride: At forty-two, I wonder why I even need to have a wedding. We have no kids. My family doesn’t care if I live with my boyfriend—oops, fiancé. Do I want people to come witness this very personal ritual? Sure, I do, because it’s fun. No one cares about my age, so I shouldn’t. Gloria Steinem first married at sixty-six. Everyone deserves a party, a wedding, if they want one. I deserve an amazing partner. The minute I stop questioning my worthiness, a part of me relaxes. Until I look over at Sam, who’s doing very little to help me plan this shindig.
Don’t expect anyone to work harder on the wedding than you. Since we (I) decide to marry within six months, the venue, dress and invites need to be done like yesterday. And the minute Sam puts the ring on my finger he seems to think his job is done. Does he not love me? Plus, getting him to agree on the wedding date was just too easy.
In that restaurant, on that special June day, I asked him, “So, when do you want to get married?”
“How about in a year?” he answered.
“How about next February?” I said.
“Sure.”
And by February, I meant January, as in over a long weekend. See? My decision. Wedding planning is kind of all about the bride. Or if you’ve watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the bride’s family. I’m working awfully hard for this ring, but no o
ne else is. When I complain to Sam about his lack of involvement, he says he doesn’t want to “step on anyone’s toes.” Translation: This is not my thing, but I’ll show up. Throughout the planning, I’m told this is normal. He cooks and does my laundry, so I’m okay with his adhering to this one gender stereotype. His stellar presence more than makes up for it.
Remember to put yourself into the wedding. To mask my fear of the public eye and my ignorance of wedding regalia, I think a quickie City Hall service is the way to go. Or a small twenty-person wedding in a tiny room, followed by a reception in a bigger room with more guests. But Sam, my mother and everyone else want an actual wedding—the whole enchilada. Big wedding it is.
After several sessions of breathing into a paper bag, I send out an SOS to my married friends and coworkers. I know nothing about any of this wedding stuff. A romance author sends me three wedding-planning books. Another suggests joining The Knot. My colleagues send me dress ideas. And invitations? Must be on thick paper (preferably cream) with lovely embossed lettering. I have fantasies of being Martha Stewart and doing the invites myself. With great ambition, I run to my stationery store and buy multicolored paper, inks, stickers and rubber stamps. For days, I sit in the middle of glitter mayhem, then share the results with my brother.
“Um, this isn’t a kindergarten class, Patience. You need real invitations,” my brother says, trying not to laugh. Which means a bajillion dollars more.
I flex new muscles, noticing that much of my wedding is about pleasing groups of people—the vegetarians, the non-glutens, the lactose intolerant, various religious factions, those who “hate that loud rock music,” the allergic, the children, and the ones who might get falling-down drunk by cake-cutting time. It’s a pleasure to accommodate their needs, but I also crave one element that says, “This is a Patience wedding!” So I claim Duran Duran’s “Rio” as my walking-down-the-aisle song. I’m set now.
When picking out your dress, think about Aunt Mary Anne and not how you want to be a Las Vegas showgirl. Of course, your dress can be a duck costume or a respectable champagne pantsuit. Because of my age, guests might rather see me in that pantsuit. The problem is that I already wear pantsuits to work and conferences. My bridal dress should be special, once in a lifetime. Like, what about some feathers covering my legs, tassels, and a massive Cher headdress? When will I ever get another chance like this? I compromise with a blue gown—slightly showy, hides sins, and my aunt won’t be mortified. Sam takes about two minutes choosing a black suit and crisp white shirt. Grooms have it so easy, it’s sickening. But still, done!
Make peace with the fact that something will go wrong. Perfection doesn’t exist. A huge whopper of a nightmare could rain down on your wedding day. Then again, I try not to let this become a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more you obsess about spewing at the altar, the more breakfast could return for an encore. As I frantically search for the perfect dress, the perfect wedding-party gifts, the perfect seating chart, the idea of one wrong move renders me catatonic with nervousness. I plan for every wedding nightmare: snowstorm, no officiant, groom imploding minutes before, food poisoning over the spinach cream thing I’m not quite sure about, tripping on my heels, mascara running down my face, and everyone having a rotten time.
Then again, what about all that goes right?
What about the fact that my relationship is a deeply fulfilling one and nothing needs to be perfect? The wedding could be a bore, but we’ll still be happy. Thanks to the great mystery of life, I never prepare for what actually does go wrong (it came in threes for me). But given how lucky I feel with Sam, I take these imperfections in stride. A bride should be determined to have fun, no matter what.
Wedding guests will have a good time as long as there’s food (and booze). Really, no one cares that much about the Jordan almonds or if you have his/hers coasters. Two weeks before the big day, I can’t quite make up my mind about this one….
“Mom, shouldn’t we have wedding favors? Like Sam and Patience M&M’s?” I ask my mother, who must know I have ulterior motives. Just think of how many bags we’ll have left over—bags I can stash in my secret chocolate drawer.
“That’s ridiculous,” Mom says. Of course it is, just one more expense on what is already costing a bajillion dollars.
Besides, it’s a little thing. My wedding won’t hinge upon whether or not we have his/hers M&M’s. For guests, weddings are mostly funfests. You get to dress up, eat food, see loved ones, and dance. Why worry about the details?
Soak up every moment of your wedding. If I spend my day being hysterical, I will miss the joy of marrying Sam. By some miracle, I love every second of my wedding day.
Even three years later, I can go through the entire day and feel the same giddiness. I remember waking up, knowing I would become his wife; the beauty team that made me into a bride; Sam’s loud voice saying his vows, how his green eyes seemed bigger than ever; his cute haircut and the yellow rose in his lapel; seeing both sides of my family interact after thirty years of no contact; our first dance to “My Eyes Adored You”; the torture of seeing the food but not getting to taste any of it until the reception was over; and, most of all, the bliss of becoming Sam’s wife.
The truth is that I didn’t need to marry Sam to feel happy or loved, but it was pretty great icing. Falling in love with such a special man was the real cake.
Patience Bloom is the author of Romance Is My Day Job (Dutton, February 2014) and a senior editor for Harlequin Books since 1997. She lived in Connecticut, Ohio, France, and New Mexico before moving to New York City and the wild world of romance publishing. Patience found her Prince Charming in her forties, which shows that, as in Harlequin’s novels, true love can strike at any time.
Everything Is Perfect
By Elisabeth Staab
Wedding days are so full of moving parts, so full of things that can go wrong, it’s no wonder tensions run high. We all want that big day to be perfect. The best and most important realization I had on my wedding day is that no matter what occurs, everything already is perfect. Really.
I like to think of my wedding day as a comedy of errors. Nobody stood up and tried to stop the wedding. No scary secrets popped out of the woodwork at the last second. No explosions. But like a Lifetime romantic comedy, so many “gotchas” popped up that my head started to spin.
I got this insane idea the night before the wedding that I needed to a) give my bridesmaids handmade gifts and b) bleach my teeth. God forbid my wedding pictures show a less-than-stellar smile. People, if you can cut it from your to-do list, then cut. But, hey, we all want to be perfect! We want our smiles to sparkle! Yeah, well, if I had it to do over again, I’d get a decent night’s sleep and just buy my wedding attendants some nice stationery like a normal person. Your wedding day is l-o-n-g and on a good day two hours of sleep is not enough. Thank God for caffeine.
Then there was that crazy tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other before the wedding. Looking back, I can’t figure out why this tradition meant so much to me. I mean, hey, if it means a lot to you, by all means, rock out with your socks out. My husband and I had already bought a house together. In hindsight, I’m not sure what spending the night before our wedding together would have changed. Besides—I love my mother. I do. I also managed to forget that she likes to sleep with the ambient temperature set to roughly that of the inside of most industrial refrigerators. After my night of eleventh-hour crafting and DIY cosmetic dentistry, I froze in the fetal position for two hours. When one of my bridal attendants showed up a couple of hours later, I threw my arms around her and burst into tears. I wasn’t only emotional. I desperately sought body heat!
During coffee, my mother and bridal attendants convinced me I was planning to overtip the caterer. I can’t swear to it, but this may have induced what I will forever refer to as “mustard-gate.” See below.
Fast-forward to the phone call while we were getting hair and makeup done that my grandfather had been left sitting on
my porch unattended with no clue where to go. I’m still not sure how that happened. Making sure you know how everybody is getting to the wedding is key. Having a person who’s willing to run miscellaneous errands, such as picking up your grandparents from your front porch while you’re getting your hair shellacked? Priceless.
So is having a fiancé who calls you in the middle of everything to let you know he loves you. Deep breaths. See? Everything is okay.
Then there was the guy who didn’t want to give me my dress. My dress. I’d bought an off-the-rack sample from one of those ritzy boutiques. A dress that normally sells for thousands I got for a steal, because it had been tried on a bazillion times and the straps were busted. I took it to a restoration place to get it cleaned and repaired, but when the guy realized there were four of us crammed into my tiny car, he didn’t want to give up the newly restored gown. “It’ll wrinkle,” he protested. Luckily, I didn’t have to whack him with my new helmet hair, and we all got away without any misdemeanors.
We had a somber and emotional moment when traffic stopped on the way to the venue to allow a motorcade for a fallen police officer to pass. I think this was the moment I realized I really just had to surrender and trust that everything was going to work out. We were already running late. We were getting married on a boat, and it occurred to me then that I’d never explicitly asked whether the boat would leave the dock at the originally scheduled time whether we were ready for it to or not. But a passing funeral, particularly one of a fallen public servant, was more important than me getting into my dress on time. Moreover, it was out of my control. We’d get there as soon as we could, and it would all be okay.
Deeeep breath…
I thought getting married on a boat would be romantic. And it was. What it also turned out to be was windy. Even though I tried to warn our florist that the flower arrangements needed to be heavily weighted, they blew over and couldn’t be used. I wanted to dress like a princess that day, complete with long, gorgeous, cathedral veil, which almost blew overboard (the veil, not the dress). Those veils catch the wind like nothing you’ve ever seen, let me tell you. Thank goodness for my maid of honor’s fast reflexes. My dress whipped around my feet so much I stepped on the hem and almost tripped and fell over while walking down the aisle.