It’s taken me nearly four years now to finally get over the fact that while I wanted to elope to Vegas, The JOP, Detroit, wherever, I got a wedding instead. Sure, sure, blah, blah, blah, I am happy to be married to The Daver, whom I obviously don’t deserve, because if I did, I would have HAPPILY planned The Wedding of Doom for him without later whining to The Internet that what I’d really wanted was to be married by Elvis.
I wasn’t quite an anti-bride, but I was as close as it comes without that label displayed prominently across my fluffy white dress and perfectly coiffed up-do. I just had a hard time mustering up the energy it took to get worked up about place cards and first dances. Daver, on the other hand, wanted a proper wedding.
I’m not certain if it’s because his parents might have spontaneously combusted if he’d informed them that we weren’t getting married by God, instead by The Little White Chapel Drive Thru wedding guy, or if it’s because he’d been dreaming of His Wedding since he was a wee girl boy, but there I was in a white dress, pledging to love, honor and repay my now-husband. In front of Sweet Baby Jesus and all of our relatives and friends.
I couldn’t wait to leave.
No really, I couldn’t. Come over sometime and I’ll show you my perfectly arranged wedding album. You’ll see a lot of pictures of me, head buried into the side of The Daver’s face while he lovingly looks at me. And maybe, just maybe you’ll gaze upon us in our finery and say, “Now I bet THEY’RE whispering sweet nothings to each other.”
And you’d be horribly, awfully wrong.
In each one of those shots, you see, The Daver is talking me into staying. I wanted nothing more than to leave from the moment the photographer started taking shots of me any my girls in our undies in the church basement. Although I’m quite social, really, I couldn’t stand being the center of attention for an occasion that I was supposed to behave a certain way.
I knew I was supposed to be Bridely, but short of fluttering around and demanding that my bridesmaids do stupid stuff like fluff my dress and polish my nails, while complaining if someone dare express an emotion other than Pure Happiness for My Big Day, I was kind of baffled. I figured that bride’s didn’t swear, or have their underwear shoved unceremoniously up their ass crack or have their knees sweat. I figured they’d probably revel in their newly married status, and while that was all fine and good, I was hot, uncomfortable, nervous, and overall unhappy as hell.
Also? I was sick.
Really, really sick.
I’ve been blessed with a mere handful of chest colds in my life and the one I came down with the week prior to our wedding was the worst I’ve ever had. I could barely breathe without choking on phlegm, I coughed so hard that I could no longer sleep without sitting up at a 90 degree angle, and I was running ridiculous fevers.
So I did what any sensible bride-to-be would do: abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
I never claimed to be brilliant, did I? Because that would be telling a lie that lying liars tell. And lies? Make The Baby Jesus cry.
I then did something to top that feat of brilliance: I wore a corseted dress for over 12 hours.
(corseted dress = decreased lung capacity = lungs fill with more mucous than you thought possible = pneumonia)
I woke up the first morning as Mrs. David Harks (do not get me started on how much I hate this title. I hate it so much that my friends all make sure to address ALL the things they send to us as Dave and Mrs. David Harks. Because my friends are HILARIOUS) and felt like death. Blaming it on exhaustion and stress, Dave helped me drag my sad sack ass out to breakfast with some of my family, who was in town visiting.
Intelligently, while I had packed a wedding dress, makeup, white shoes (okay, they were cream. It was after Labor Day, and we ALL know how well I follow rules), a Guns-n-Roses garter, a diaper bag for Ben, bobby pins and a bra, I hadn’t packed anything to wear the First Day of The Rest Of My Life. Our miserable cat had taken a lovely piss all over the dress I’d worn to the rehearsal dinner, something, of course, I hadn’t realized until I was literally standing at the alter, wondering if Dave had peed himself.
Turns out he hadn’t. But I still had to go through the rest of the warm muggly summer evening smelling like a fucking cat box. What I’m saying is that this was the Best Day Ever.
So I had no dress to wear. Instead, I had an electric pink bra, an oversized Grateful Dead shirt (hey, don’t judge) and some hot pink mini-shorts that had the name of my alma mater on the ass cheeks. Also? Some rhinestone kitten-heeled sandals.
I know, I know, I was too sexy. Stop flattering me, I’m all embarrassed now.
After brunch, we went to my parents house to pick up some of the gifts we’d received and while we were there, I really started to have a hard time breathing. Every time I took a breath in, I coughed so badly that I would have peed my pants had my bladder been full.
Our honeymoon was the following morning, and I had pneumonia.
On our way back home, I really REALLY had a hard time breathing, so I had The Daver take me to the ER. It was a Sunday and we’d moved into an area where I knew of absolutely no urgent care facilities, so off to the ER I went, looking like a cracked out whore and sounding like I’d been smoking cigars by the bushel* since I was 12 minutes old.
The lovely–for once no trace of sarcasm here–ER doctor gave me a script for some big guns antibiotics and some codeine and I was sent on my merry way. The first thing I was able to sign my freshly married name to? A nice fat ER bill.
But I swear, next time I am SO eloping. Or demanding a script for Vicodin as a wedding present. Because THAT would have eased my pain like no amount of vodka could have.
How are YOU today?
*How many is a bushel?