A Nice Day For a White-ish Wedding

So, I’m getting married.  Again.  “Didn’t you learn the first time?”  Why yes, yes I did.  I learned how NOT to do it.  I learned what it really takes in a relationship to enable cohabitation without felony.  I learned (for the umpteenth time in my life) that people don’t change and the future spouse had damn well better be perfect from date one.

And he is.  We’ve recently completed 43 home improvement projects without so much as sniping at each other.  If that isn’t a rubber stamp for marital bliss, I don’t know what is.

But I’m no rookie.  I begged for an elopement.  Vetoed.  After all, it’s his first wedding, and he has the “big family.”  So I sighed and buckled down for three months of hell.  Yes, three months. Why sign up for more torture than necessary?

We’ve been planning to do this for quite some time, but the siren song of Home Improvement always distracted us.  “We’ll get married just as soon as we get the new hardwood flooring in... people will be visiting, you know.”  It sounded simple enough at the time, but still didn’t take into consideration the myriad other projects that preceded it.  So, eight months later, we stood arm in arm, basking in the glow of our gleaming floor…

“Well, the floor’s in.”

“Yup.”

“Guess we know what’s next.”

“Yup.”  

“How ‘bout Vegas?”

“Nope.”

And we’re off.

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by
Mitzi Dupree
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What is this, 1967?