I drank NOTHING. From my rehearsal dinner to my wedding night, I literally had nothing to drink. I even faked my champagne toast picture. I was so afraid I was going to have to pee in that dress that I completely boycotted liquids for 24 hours. (Good plan, Michele.)
It was drizzling on my wedding day. Drizzling! Isn’t the whole point of a December wedding cool, dry, humidity-free weather? (Stupid curly hair.)
My dress was new and modeled after a picture I saw in a magazine. My veil was my mother’s made by my grandmother. My garters were made by my aunt. And because it was Christmas, the one I threw was holiday-themed. And my shoes and purse were just some cheap, vintage-looking stuff I found on my own.
I still have them. And I’d still wear them if I didn’t think they’d disintegrate into powder the first time I put them on.
The band played the wrong song for our first couples dance. It was supposed to be Harry Connick Jr.’s I Could Write a Book. (Ironic, right?) But instead they played Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. And I was fit to be tied. (What an idiot.)
The band (AGAIN with the poor band) was instructed not to play any line dances. Dave and I don’t like line dancing. But they played Strokin’. My guests loved it. Dave and I did not. Nor did we dance. (Couple of jerks.)
The slice of cake I cut for the traditional photo was so ridiculously thin that we almost didn’t get the shot. (Seriously, was I dieting that day?)
I got better on the second one … also known as the one I never even tasted!
The photographer was determined to get the traditional handholding close-up shot with our new rings. Dave and I declined. More than once. The result was worse than any of us could ever have imagined. Between Dave’s nail-biting and my failure to get a wedding day manicure (or even paint my own stupid nails!), the picture was doomed before the button was ever clicked. (And I call myself a girl.)
As we ran out of the reception for our big exit, the last person I saw was my father. He had tears in his eyes. (I get it now, Dad.)
From the horse-drawn carriage ride we took after the reception in the French Quarter, Dave saw an old friend on the street. “Hey. Whatcha been up to, Dave?” called out the old friend. “Nothing really.” Then Dave stopped to think. “Well … except getting married!” he called back. (Nice save, Dave.)
There we are, leaving the very same hotel we would be returning to later that night. Because you need to make a grand exit, right?
It seemed so uneventful to have everybody throw rice at us in the elevator.
Of course, one of the coolest things about my wedding day was sitting around in the bar at the hotel in my wedding dress with my parents and other immediate family … after all the festivities were over at the end of the night … just having a drink. Finally!
I can’t believe it’s been TWENTY YEARS.
Happy Anniversary, Dave.
(Photo #2 was a near casualty of Hurricane Katrina.)
Here’s what 20 years looks like.
(What? Nobody ever said it would be pretty.)